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The first six months were a blur. When David looks back, it's like a haze of colors and conversations. Bits and pieces of a puzzle titled After She Died.
In the years following, he'll have questions. Why did she hide it from him? What was she really going through? Was I really such a bad son, that she couldn't come to me for help? But grief isn't just a process, it's the world around you changing, it's guilt, and sadness, and wondering every day what they would say, if only they were here.
It doesn't end, not really. It just changes, easier one week and harder the next. Grief changes with the seasons, with the daylight, and it changes with the ground underneath his feet.
But there is one day he remembers well. The first day, not the first one after it happened or even the first day after the funeral. It was the first day he noticed the way the sun shone through his windows, the first day he heard the birds singing, and the world seemed to be fully colored in again. The first day it seemed like the puzzle would actually be completed.
He had the day off of work, maybe that was why the piece of hard ice inside his chest seemed to be lighter, maybe it was the first breath of spring moving into the valley. Maybe he was just ready.
It's a strange feeling to be proud of the simple actions of getting out of bed, brushing his teeth, eating a breakfast that wasn't Poptarts or cereal. But, David can't remember the last time he felt like making breakfast, he can't remember when eggs tasted this good or when drinking coffee on the porch felt like heaven.
So he decided to embrace it, make a whole day of indulging in the smallest, sweetest things he can.
He feels a little silly, later, laying on the couch covered in the softest blankets he owned, a mixture of oats, milk, and honey covering his face because someone on Pinterest said it would feel soothing. He's not really sure it's done anything other than frighten him walking past his own reflection. But what does he know about skincare, anyway?
He makes a big pot of soup for dinner. It's an old recipe, his mother made it for him whenever he got sick, and his grandmother made it for her. For the first time, he thinks about her and smiles, the pain isn't gone but he's alive. He's making her soup and maybe that means she's still with him.
Eventually, he settles in. His face does feel surprisingly soft now, the blankets have settled into a comfortable David-shaped nest on the couch, and the soup is warm and soothing. He turns on the TV, and gets lost in the comfort of watching other people mix, knead, and shape dough. Familiar motions and familiar voices eventually putting him into a different kind of haze, one sleepy and warm, tinged with the soft yellow of his fairy-light strung living room.
For the very first time in a long time, David knows he's going to be okay. Even if he isn't, yet.