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the years that come after

It's not true what they say. 
"The first year is the hardest." 
That's so far from the truth. 

My beloved friend and hair stylist lost her 14 year old son in a tragic gun accident 12 years ago. 
Today, as I sat down in her chair I asked her "How long did it take you to enjoy the holiday season again?"
In the middle of my question, my breath caught and burst into tears.

She shared with me some things that are deeply private, but she did say it. 
"The first year is not the hardest."
That was exactly what I needed.
It was permission. It was my acknowledgement. 
I'm not crazy. I'm not losing my mind. 
The first year isn't the hardest. 

While there IS joy in my life, this year, the third Christmas without Enzo, has been more difficult than the others. 
What do I do with that? 
No one can answer that. Not even me. Moscato didn't work. Quiet doesn't work. Loud doesn't work. 
Smiling doesn't work. 

The only thing that HAS helped is to simply let it happen. Cry when I need to. Cuss at him when I need to. Drink that wine when I need to. Talk to the sunset when I need to. 
And keep putting one foot in front of the other. Get up. Go to work. Come home. Go to sleep. 
It's not working, but it keeps me moving. 
Movement keeps my soul from becoming stagnant and I need that. 
Because it's not true what they say. The first year isn't the hardest. 
It's all the years that come after.




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