Time is the Hardest Part

Time has such a way in death, doesn’t it? 

It’s already been two weeks—yet it’s only been two weeks. 

Two weeks without you. Two weeks too long. 

Mornings are the hardest. 

The world wakes up, the sun rises, life moves forward—but I don’t. 

Not really. Not without you. 

I linger in bed longer than I should…why even bother getting up? You were my first smile of the day, my first reason to rise. The quiet is thick. Silence, cold and empty, where you used to be. 

And yet, I still find myself whispering, “Good morning my love” to the space you should fill. 

Days are the hardest. 

Clocked in for work, my chair feels too big, too lonely. You were always here.

My coworker, my sidekick, my silent companion. Your snores filled the space between calls. Your eyes locked onto mine, watching, waiting, knowing me better than anyone ever could. 

Now, I turn and there’s no one there. No soft breath. No rhythmic rise and fall of your chest beside me. No comfort in the sound of your presence. 

The world moves forward, but I am still stuck here, in the space you left behind. 

Afternoons are the hardest. 

The sun shines through the window, warming the spot where you used to lay. I catch myself glancing over, longing to see you lost in a nap. But the space stays empty, and so does my heart. 

Time moves forward. Pulling me with it. 

Evenings are the hardest. 

The house fills with shadows, but none are yours. The kitchen feels wrong without you at my feet, waiting for a taste of something, anything. The couch feels too big, the quiet too deep. 

Belly scratches turned to heartache. Playtime turned to pacing. 

Life moves forward, the sun sets the moon shines, but it’s dull—emptier, quieter. 

Like the world forgot something I never will. 

Bedtimes are the hardest. 

Your bed remains in its place, impossibly vacant. I don’t have the heart to move it. It’s as if doing so would erase you, as if it would mean you were really gone. 

And I can’t bear that, not yet. Maybe not ever. 

So I whisper goodnight. To the empty space, to the air, to the memory of you. 

Hoping somehow, somewhere, you hear me. 

Hoping somehow, somewhere, you still feel my love. 

Time has such a way in death, doesn’t it?

It’s already been two weeks—yet it’s only been two weeks. 

And I miss you with every aching beat of my heart.