Most days I push the sad thoughts out of my mind. Sometimes, out of nowhere, I'll hear a song, and it triggers the tears. The Beatles, especially. I can't listen to them anymore.
It's been four months.
I haven't healed yet.
Unless denial counts as healed.
He's up there though. I know that.
He's holding the babies I only ever got to hold in my belly.
He's okay up there.
I know that much.
But I still hurt for all that wasn't.
The reconciliation that will have to wait until Heaven.
And I give thanks for those that continue to hold me. Listen to me. Tell me it's okay to cry, to cuss, to binge on simple carbohydrates.
He wasn't perfect.
Most of my life I just wished he'd come visit me, watch me grow up.
But I get it now.
He just did the best he could.
He was broken.
So beautifully broken.
But he's not anymore.
He's up there.
And he's okay.
