I am a rock. I am an island.

Life has become a never ending game of chutes and ladders. I climb toward the finish line only to roll the dice and slide down again. Each climb up is difficult. Especially when I am climbing the same ladder for the umpteenth time. And each slide down is on that blazing hot piece of metal. And I'm wearing shorts. And not just any shorts, but the ones from the 1970's. If my buns weren't burning from the climb they were burning from the skin peeling slide back down. I decided that today I would direct this blog to the one that I have been writing about. That is to say, this one is to my wife, not just about her. 

The pain grows as the day approaches. And this is how I see it going: Hand in hand we approach that slab of granite that includes the beginning and end of the incredible life of our daughter. You do realize she would be 23 by now. Yeah, I know. Pretty incredible. Time has crept by in a flash. This crawl of years has taken forever as it proves the theory that time flies when you're having fun. When you're not having fun the finish seems so far away. Across the grass we amble, our grip on each other tighter with each step. I don't know at this point who is holding who up. Eight years. Eight long years. From the road we cannot see her name but we know it's there. We've traced it a thousand times with our fingers. The branch. The butterfly. The words letting everyone know that she was Our Angel. The dash. So much resides in that dash. Such a short dash but so full while it was being etched on this earth. Rounding the corner we find our places on the concrete bench and sit with our fingers intertwined. The sun glints off the diamond I put on your finger 27 years ago. Our interlaced fingers becoming one. My fingers dwarfing your perfect, short, stubby little ones. 

This visit is different. This is the most difficult yet. As each blade of grass bent under the weight of my feet I acknowledge the fact that this time there is only one set of footprints. And the approach is to two slabs of granite. Both etched with the stake that went through my heart. This stylus of death has ripped me in two. The bench has been moved to the other side of our daughter's spot in the earth. It now resides above the last patch of earth my body will ever own. We had to move it from the other side to make room for you. Just like you said I would have to do. I place myself on this bench made for two but there is only one now. No one to hold me as I sob. No one to lock her fingers with mine. No one to mix her tears with mine on the grass beneath our heads that hang heavy. This time when I rise I will wipe the dirt off of two markers. I will trace my fingers along two dashes and realize how short those dashes are. I will walk away and trace that single row of footprints back to the road. I will glance back to the markers and know that one day I too will have my wish just as you did. 

Somewhere out there, if you listen for it, there is a loud crack. My heart is breaking in two. It is being sliced and shaped into a block roughly 8 inches thick, three feet wide, and two feet tall. And on one polished side of this stone is being etched a date. Followed by a dash. You, my sweet dear, filled over half of that dash. Your daughter made it wider. And that dash will stop one day and be followed by another date. That date will not mark the end of the dash. It will mark the beginning of the greatest reunion ever. Open your arms wide and brace yourself because I'll be running full tilt! 

I know you will be with me next week as I face another dreaded first. And, although I can't mix my tears with yours I will cry enough for us both. Although I can't lace my fingers with yours I will squeeze my fist tight. And although I can't place footprints next to yours I know mine will be deeper than ever before. Because I will carry the weight of my love for you as well as that of your family and mine. And, when we are all putting an end to our dashes you will know that my final dash will be to you.