My oldest child is home from visiting her family in Georgia. She had a great time, and I am so glad she’s home.

I’ve discovered something I call a “Trigger Point.”

A “Trigger Point” is a place in town that I try to avoid because it brings waves of sickening grief over me, whenever I end up there. For whatever reason, these places are hard for me to be. The worst is my bedroom. Aside from the fact that he died in there, we spent many intimate and close moments there. We had many conversations in the peaceful darkness before we slept, and we spent a lot of time relaxing together in our bedroom. We were as close as two people could be. It’s hard to be in there in his absence.

Another Trigger Point is McCarran Airport. Before, if I had to go there, he would be with me. We’ve said goodbye to eachother there, and have rejoiced together at being reunited there. And he was always there when I had to send our oldest off to see her father and her family in Georgia. He was there to hold me when she finally took off, and I cried. He would take me for breakfast or dinner, and we’d ease into the stressful month without her here. But I could handle it. I could handle it because Jon was there.

This past trip, he wasn’t.

I cried harder when I dropped her off, and I almost fell to my knees. The pain was so severe, I wanted to throw up. I hate saying goodbye to my baby girl, and it was incredibly obvious that Jon was not there to hold me and wait for her plane to take off with his arms around me. I was alone, and it hurt. A lot.

This time, I knew it was coming. I’ve fought the worst all day, just trying to stay positive, because Aurora was coming home and my life isn’t complete without her.

But walking through that airport, and knowing that every step I took was one I once took by his side brought me lower and lower. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, or look at anyone. I just wanted to get my daughter and go home.

I’ve decided that I really don’t like it there anymore.

Too many sad, painful memories and not enough good ones. I’m strong enough to hold it together for Aurora’s sake. I’m strong enough to pick her up and take her to. But I will probably alway break down when I go there, because of all the goodbyes I had to say to my Jonathan, whom I hated to leave.

He possessed a quiet strength that was unshakeable, yet delicate and inobtrusive. He could assess any situation to the best logical conclusion, even though I know that sometimes my panic reactions drove him insane. He simply didn’t worry about the things he could fix or withstand. He refused to let fear overtake him, even though I am probably the only person (aside from his mother), that has seen fear cross his face.

He was so incredibly strong. It wasn’t a strength that he shoved in everyone’s face. His strength was gentle and made you feel secure. With Jon, I felt safe. I felt like I could lose myself in deep sleep, and life would still show up in the morning.

It has been so hard to trust myself for that strength, and trust God that life will still show up the next morning. Only this time, it shows up with the harsh reality of death, as well.  It kills me that I have to wake up in this reality every single day, never getting a day off from the grief. Sometimes, I wake up and I am so focused on my plans, that I don’t take time to fall apart. Sometimes, I go a whole day without falling apart.

But the reality is still there.

I miss him. Missing hurts, because it’s a desire unfullfilled. It’s a need, unmet and a want, unsatisfied.  My husband has dissipated into another place where I cannot find him. And every place in this city has his imprint. Every corner has his whispers and his footsteps. I can’t go anywhere and not find his wake. I can’t go anywhere and find him. I keep asking God for a miracle. But God doesn’t work like that. I wish He did. Knowing what I know now, I’d do nothing but serve Him if I could just have one more year.. We had so many plans that I’ve had to cancel. If I had one more year, we’d have been able to at least do some of them.

It’s the most selfish wish I’ve ever made. And I know it won’t come true.