Writers Jam

4:30pm 9, November, 1988

Our daughters came to visit today.

They say I should let you go, leave. Everyone does. But how can I? How can I let go of you when I still remember all the times we have spent together?

The way the corners of your eyes crinkled everytime you smiled when you were particularly happy about something, the way you always made sure to stock the fridge with my favourite m&ms because you knew I liked snacking on them throughout the day, the way you always, always made sure to bake my favourite cupcakes for my birthday, the way you laughed freely seeing me play with our kids, the way you gave me the side eye when I forgot to throw the trash away even though I told you I'd do it, the way you talked to our dog as if he understood every word, the way you made sure to remove the sides from my sandwich because you knew I liked it that way, the way you lit up every room you walked into, the way you looked at me like I hung the moon, like I made everything in your world feel right again —I remember it all, and so much more.

So, the answer is simple. I cannot. I cannot let you go. I refuse to. I'll sit by your side, and read you snippets from your favourite book like you used to love reading to me by the fireplace.

In hopes that one day, you would remember it all like I do.

And until that day comes, I'll write in this diary everyday so you can read all about the moments you missed while on your way back to me.