Eight

Eight years ago today it was also Sunday. I normally don't notice little details like that. But eight years ago today on Sunday, I got a phone call that I knew I was going to get. I knew the night before when I lay down with tears in my eyes, that the hope against hope that different phone call would reach me simply wasn't going to happen. My Uncle Nofre would not survive the surgery to repair the dissecting aortic aneurysm. He died eight years ago today.

I remember waking up that morning, before the memories of the night before had flooded in. I relished those moments because my mind had forgotten -- only briefly remembered that there was something terrible I was worried about; something horrible that I was anticipating. Part of me knew but the other part wanted to savor the denial for a little bit longer.

It's been eight years and earlier this month, I was told by well meaning family members that I just "need to get over it." It's funny, isn't it? It's the family members that you share these thoughts with because they too felt the earth shattering loss, right? They're the ones who can commiserate because they know it too.

But maybe grief isn't something people want to be vulnerable to all the time.

So I'll get over it in the sense that I won't share these thoughts with them. (Heh, instead I'll share it with you, nameless, faceless internets.)

And today, I'll remember that on a Sunday like this one, my world changed. I still miss him. I still miss the weekly phone calls. I still miss how when he called I'd say, "Hi Uncle." And he'd say, "Hi, this is Uncle Nofre."

Eight years and I can still find that familiar knot in my chest. I guess that's just how it is. Love doesn't die just because the object of your affections had the poor manners to leave before you were ready.