ad astra per aspera

I can’t stop looking for you everywhere.

Last night I heard one of the guests at the party talk about his wife: “my wife says . . . . .”

I will never hear you say that again, something so simple.  Of course I’ll never hear you say anything again.  You are dead.  I am alive.  I don’t feel very alive.  I’m a stranger in my body, my clothes, my (our) bed, my house, my (your) truck, my head, my life; especially in a room or house or party full of couples.  I don’t know who I am anymore.  You are dead and everything seems absurd, empty, and so very full at the same time.
How can I believe in nothing and everything at the same time?  How can I be alive and feel so dead?  How the fuck can you be dead?
I feel like I’m losing my mind and I guess that’s normal, from what I’ve read.  Every single thing reminds me of you.  When we drive into Lawrence nearly every day we pass a John Deere store and Magnus says “When I be bigger maybe I can ride one of those with you, maybe.”  And every time he says that I think of you, and how much you would of loved to hear him say that.  But you will never hear him say that, and he will never get to see the smile it would have put on your face.  You will never get to see your son grow up and he will have no choice but the cruelty of a childhood without his father.  He asks me why you got leukemia and I tell him that I don’t know, that nobody knows, nobody knows.
I don’t know anything anymore except that you are dead, and most days I have trouble trying to possibly understand that simple horrifying fact of my life.