Now, after a day at work, I don't want to make lemonade like I said this morning. I'm sitting here, bawling my eyes out, dripping on the Kevin-cat, and hurting hurting hurting because I just want him to walk in the door. Just one time more. Just one.
Like the AC asking for just one more look at Rich's coffin. Just one more mummy.
I just want to see him, hold him, kiss him, be with him once more time. It's a physical pain that hits me in the stomach over and over again. It stops me moving thinking being existing as me. All I am is this huge ball of tears and snot and grief and want and need and so many, many things.
32 weeks really matters. No, I don't know why, but I know it does. It does. I've known all day what time it was, what I was doing 32 weeks ago. When he died. When I saw the fire engines. When the police came. When I saw him. When my mother came. When I told the AC. All day, what I was doing 32 weeks ago.
So now I'm doing exactly what I was doing 32 weeks ago. Crying.
Without the sense of disbelief, without the hope of a baby this time, without the hope that it was all some crazy mistake by someone else.
Just crying. Just crying and crying and it's getting on my nerves now.
I just want him home.