I don't smile like I did before

Sundays were my favorite day of the week. I would wake up, peek over and he was already awake staring back or up, cooking breakfast, beginning the one day we cherished. There weren't any interruptions on Sundays. Our day to recharge from the week, to spend as much time as we possibly could doing what we loved. At the top of that list was just being together. I can taste it. I can see him standing there, I can smell him. And then it's gone and I'm racing trying to remember every detail, every line on his face, every eye lash that protected his spirit. The spirit that is aligned with mine. 

I'm having to redefine my Sundays. And every other day in between. 

I can write all of this down, desperate for someone to understand but until your life has been interrupted abruptly, completely ripped at the seams and everything you are, everything you hoped for and dreamed of is just sprawled out in the streets exposed. 

Run over by the rat race. Damaged. Raw. 

Nerve endings that you don't think will ever heal. 

I'm not talking about a hurt that goes away either. It's not like I stubbed my toe. This pain. This solitude. This crushing weight of reality. I can't describe that type of pain to you. You have to feel it. From what I've gathered, numbing the pain is easier, I can't do that though. I've tried. I've tried to run away from this, it's not going anywhere. I end up right where I began so I have to find a way to face this. To live with the pain, learn how to silence it when necessary and let it roar when the time is right. This Sunday it's thunderous. I'm allowing it, not without a little preparation for the next time it comes around. The theme this week and since I've come out of the fog has been defining who I am. What I want out of this. Small steps. 

Sundays are for peace.

Sundays are for smiling until you finally see a glimpse of yourself.

Sundays are for dogs.

Sundays are for yoga and walks.

Sundays are for sunshine and swimming pools.

Sundays are for cold, dreary weather.

Sundays are for hot tea and bonfires.

Sundays are for board games.

Sundays are for endless giggles.

Sundays are for donuts or long, drawn out brunches. 

Sundays are for freezing moments so you don't, won't forget. 

Sundays are for woods, and letting you know your aren't alone.

Sundays are for family, and not always with the ones who share your DNA. 

Sundays are for Stevie Wonder.

Sundays are for wonder.

Sundays are for wander.

Sundays are for enchantment.

Sundays are for Lindsey.

Sundays are for remembrance. 

Sundays are for love.

My days are never the same. I will never be the same. Adjusting to this is challenging and some days I feel like I'm coasting. I don't know what I want, who I want, how I want. I ask myself these questions all the time, the only answer I can come up with is travel. Chris and I travelled all the time. Together and separate, we would joke that our "seven year itch" was our nomadic spirit calling, time to move. Time to shake a leg. I hear you. 

I hear you and I'm listening. 

First stop is Disney World as soon as school gets out. The kids have no idea and I can't wait to see their astonished little faces. 

Sundays are for surprises.