Four Days and Four Hours and Thirty-Four Minutes
Anyone who knows me knows I don't count days. As I go about my routine time gets lost. Right now, in fact, I'm not sure if today is the 12th or the 17th or maybe the 20th. It is worse during the summer, but even during the school year, I find myself estimating the date on notebook entries. I look at the highlighted square on my calendar, check for the day's events and completely miss noticing the date. I'm not sure how many years I've been blogging. I don't know the exact day my grandfather died. Birthdays escape me.
But I know this: Karianne left four days and four hours and thirty-four minutes ago.
There's empty spaces in the house where she belongs. The space at the end of the couch where her laptop sat. The corner in the entryway where her flip flops were always kicked off. The empty window sill above the kitchen sink where her bracelets waited while she washed dishes.
Physical reminders that twist the sting of missing just a little deeper into our hearts.
It's proof that we did it right, Andy says. If it didn't hurt it means we could have loved more. So this sting, that keeps stinging even after four days and four hours and thirty-four minutes is a good thing. It means we loved deeply and lived fully. It means our hearts have expanded, and we glimpse a little bit more of the definition of family. It means we have more insight into lives outside of ours.
I guess all of that makes up for the sting.