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Without You

There are days where the hours pass by, where the world spins on its axis, the birds chirp, the cars pass by and day turns to night. There are days where the warm summer breeze flows care-free, where 2014 is no different than 2004, or 1982.

And then there are days when December 21 is always.

There are days when that day’s magenta sunset still blankets my life, frozen in time, stuck. There are days when the weight of loss is as oppressively heavy as it was back then, when the truth feels brand new, just as shocking, just as unnerving, just as confusing, days when the world is askew, life is not real, memories seem made up.

There are days where I learn again, over and over and over and over, that I live life without you.

Without you here by my side, or on the other end of the phone, without you to nag and pester and love and adore.  Days when I shake my head in disbelief that nearly two years have passed without you on this earth.

Five hundred and ninety three days.

593 without your dark hair. 593 without your smile. 593 without your hug, your voice, your love. Gone. Has it really been that long?

Do you know what I’ve been up to? Do you know what I’ve felt, how I’ve ached, how I’ve soared, how I’ve loved and grown and triumphed? Do you know what I’ve done? Where I’ve gone?

All without you.

But the globe keeps on spinning. The axis is upheld. And I am here.


What does it mean to move on without others, to sludge forward, head up high, without a corner of their very being? How do we transcend the gap, ever-appreciative of what was rather than mournful of what no longer is?

I’m still learning.

And man, it’s tough.

You forgot to teach me that lesson, mom. You thought you had a few more decades to do so.

Today is one of those days, one of the ones where the Texas heat seems unending and like a veil of absurdity has fallen over real life. This isn’t normal. But it used to be.

But that’s myopic.

This is life. This is real. The new now, but not so new anymore. Here. Life.

That’s it.

Without you.

One Comment Post a comment
  1. Diane Marks Schachat #

    Beautifully expressed once again, David. Your writings describe your experience so articulately.

    I am so happy you have found your bashert, David. Danielle is a lucky person, as you are too, I’m sure. Mazal tov. I’d love to see a picture if you’d like to email it to me at

    All the best,

    August 7, 2014

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