Today, on my birthday, I become older than he ever was. Its not natural. Its not right. And it doesn't make sense. I look in the mirror and don't feel old. I feel like I still have a life before me. Is that how he felt that morning? Young and alive? Ready to take on another day? 35... or 36... is not really that old.
And yet as young as I feel, I am also acutely aware that I am old enough to die. I've already lived longer than he ever did. It could be my turn to drop dead tomorrow. I struggle to wrap my head around his mortality. My own mortality. The mortality of us all.
It's ironic how a day that has been set aside to commemorate and celebrate birth has me thinking even more about death. But it seems everything has me thinking about death these days.
Life, and death, seem to have taken on a whole new meaning - a meaning I am only now coming to terms with in the realization that I have officially, at 36 years old, outlived my husband. We take so much for granted. Like the fact that there will be a tomorrow, and that we will be there to see it.
I'm not much in the mood for celebrating this auspicious occasion. Actually, I would rather it not happen at all. I would rather remain 35 forever - the same age he was. If I do not get older time does not pass. The distance between us does not increase. The moments he did not live to experience do not happen. But knowing that I cannot stop the clock, I will rise again to greet another dawn.
He's gone, but the world keps on turning. People keep on getting older. Including me.
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