Where it comes from I'm never sure. It starts slowly but when it hits me it's all I can do not to collapse on the floor a mass of nerves and tears. There is a part of me that truly aches, wishing it could have been different. Wishing we could have saved "it", wishing we could have saved you. And in these moments, all reason seems useless, offering no comfort and no relief from these tears.

It's strange the things I miss. Fighting to stay awake, to watch the game, and finding myself asleep at your feet an hour later. "Twinkle toes," dancing in the living room, and air guitar solos. Gordon Lightfoot in the car and impromptu history lessons. Stories about grandma and Sunday morning brunch.

So here I am.
Trying to remember, trying to forgive and trying to let go.

And this is how I see you.