Today is 6 months from the last blissfully ignorant day of my life. I feel like it’s been weeks, like the world is moving on around me. I am confused by what season it is when I wake up.
6 months since we thought you just had a little cold that you’d get over soon. You said you were starting to feel better, that you’d probably go to work the next day, Monday. And I said, sarcastically, I’ll believe it when I see it. If your fever isn’t completely gone you’re calling the doctor in the morning. And you insisted you’d prove me wrong.
You didn’t prove me wrong.
You were almost always right. I still owe you a souffle, from a long-forgotten drunk giggly debate over something. I never learned to make it. I’m sorry the ramekins are still sitting there unused while I can’t even recall what the bet was that you won.
I wish I had been wrong. I wish it had been just another day of our beautiful, happy, boring, mundane life getting in the way of ever having to have time to make a souffle.