It finally happened.

I forgot.

When you lose someone days aren't just days anymore. Weeks aren't just weeks and years are a heavy reminder of the chasm that's opening up and swallowing what used to be.
Thursdays, a full moon, the sixth day of the month, Bloody Mary's, all hold a certain weight to them that I'm quick to embrace. He deserves that, me marking each passing milestone big or small.

But I finally forgot.

I ran into an older couple who knew the family and asked who I was married to and, of course, when I told them, they were quick to express their sympathies. I remarked that it was coming up on 19 months, and damn how could it be that long already? Later, as I was driving home, I noticed the date on my phone. It was the ninth.

A heart skidding to a halt, a deep gasp, and a hand covering a mouth as realization dawned.

19 months had come and gone. It was the first time since d-day that I hadn't commemorated the passing of another month in some way. Because I forgot.

I filled the car with music. Cried tears that tasted of guilt. Wondered what it might mean. Wondered what I had been doing, what had occupied my mind so much that the day didn't register.

Looking for a house in Florida. Planning the rest of my life. Seeing a future.

Life goes on, and to me, that's the saddest part.