Two Years

We always wanted to go to Glacier National Park, but somehow never got around to it. And now here I am, entering the park two years almost to the minute since she-- I can't bring myself to say the D word, and yet I don't like any of the silly euphemisms either: passed on, left us, went to her reward. She's gone, that's what it all comes down to - not here. Gone.

Maybe that's what I should say - went away. Two years since she "went away". Because that's how it still feels - like she's gone away on some extended trip and one of these days, one if these long empty days, I'm going to come home and open the door, or come around a corner, and there she'll be, arms outstretched, and maybe even a little upset that it took me so long to get home from work.

"Where have you been?" she'll say. "I've been waiting forever."

And I'll only be able to manage three words in return, whispered softly, like a prayer you never expected to be answered: "So have I."