We still miss Zack so much. Every single day.
I keep expecting to see him coming out from under the dining table. He usually hung out there while Mommy’s sitting there.
I wake up early morning, half expecting to feel him lying down on my leg. Or leaning against me. Or feeling his tiny head lying on my shoulder, asleep and snoring loudly.
I enter my parents’ house expecting Zack will meet me at the door.
I see the rug outside the bathroom and I’m frazzled that he’s not there.
I come out of the shower and I remember that I even dried him off when he had his final bath.
I walk up the stairs and I remember how we chased him every time he goes upstairs on his own. Yet he still kept going up the stairs…which somehow gave us hope that he was feeling better. Remember last year when he lost mobility on his hind legs? That’s why his efforts to walk and climb the stairs – his hard-won efforts – I read as a good sign. But I was proven wrong.
I sit on the bed and I expect him to suddenly push the bedroom door open as he enters the room. Or sometimes, he’d push the door enough to sneak a peek inside without actually entering.
I lie down on the bed and remember how he’d lie down and sleep beside me.
I remember how I used to carry him – like a baby – and he was so used to it. People who’d see him carried that way were delighted that he was like a baby.
I close my eyes and I remember how his face and his little body felt when I massaged it (so very relaxed to the point of falling asleep), how he smelled like vanilla (and I love the smell of vanilla) and how he was okay with my displays of affection (especially when I’d say, “pillow!” and he’d lie down, so I can lie my head on his back).
One month later and I still end up aghast that he’s not there. The horror of his absence strikes me at the oddest of times. That realization that I’m not going to see him again…or at least not in this lifetime. Some days, I wake up forgetting that he’s gone and the pain of losing him hits me hard all over again.