There is a certain hopelessness to this. A hopelessness that is certain.
Don't get me wrong. There is not a hopelessness to my life; there is no hopelessness to my husband and my joy in knowing where he walks, talks, breathes, and lives. Where I will one day live with him.
But there is a hopelessness to the finality of my days here with him.
I wake in the morning, and there is a sweet second or two when I have forgotten. But it is always short lived, followed quickly by the nauseating rush of reality that leaves me quaking in my bed. Every single morning.
I didn't get to see him today. I don't get to see him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Or the next.
I don't get to see him. That's a whole lot of not seeing the man I planned to do my life with. The man who listened well and cared much, served well and loved hard.
I do not grieve as those who have no hope, but still I grieve.
I do not get him back. And that brings a certain hopelessness.
My heart hurts.