9:17

Hi, honey.

It’s been a hard day.  A bad day.  The boys just… the boys.  I’m so tired tonight.

I just want to tell you about it.  But simply saying your name out loud has made my lungs feel smaller.  This is why I don’t talk to you.  Because I can’t breathe.

I can’t see your face.  When I close my eyes, I can only picture photographs of you.  I can remember pieces of you – your scruffy cheek, the line of your teeth, the honey brown of your eyes – but I can’t see the whole of your face.

I’m tired of missing you.  It’s been a long, long time. More than 500 days.  

Loneliness is hard to trust.

“Mommy, where is my blanket?” Tyler calls to me.  My eyes are so swollen, they’re nearly closed.  I don’t want to talk about my tears.  They know I cry.  They know why.  I just don’t want to talk.  I take him his blanket.  He doesn’t notice my swollen eyes.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

He’s five now, Love.  He uses words like nocturnal, extraordinary, interesting and actually.

I remembered to put a dollar under Tucker’s pillow – finally.  The tooth fairy forgot two nights in a row.  It’s hard to remember it all.  

I think you’ll be glad to know I’m paying a little extra on the principal of the mortgage each month.  I think that will really impress you.  I choose mortgage over cute shoes.  I hear you… “What?  This can’t be.  Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?!”

I finished my book proposal, babe.  They sent it off to some big names.  Maybe I’ll have a book on the shelves.  How can it be that I cannot read it to you?

There are tears in my wine glass.  Salty.

Tucker walks like you.  His stride is perfectly yours.  How did it happen this way?  Any of this?

A friend of yours stopped me at Starbucks.  He takes his kids to our pediatrician.  He’s thankful you introduced him to the clinic. He says you introduced him to a lot of things, people, thoughts. He misses you.

I miss you.

Your college roommate is coming out this summer.  He wants to meet the boys.  He wants to play catch with Tuck.  He says it’s only fair, since he made you toss a ball with him so often in college.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

How did it happen this way?

The weather comes on in 11 minutes.  9:17 always makes me think of you.

I would break every damn plate and picture in this house tonight.  Just to hear it crash.

But I’m just too tired.  I don’t want to do this anymore.

I love you.  I just wanted to tell you about today.  

Good night, honey.

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15 thoughts on “9:17

  1. I am so sorry for your pain, Tricia. You were so lucky to have Robb and he, so very lucky to have you and the boys. And your readers are lucky to get to share in your talent, albeit in such a sad way. Tomorrow will be a different day — maybe not necessarily better, just different. Hope something brings you joy tomorrow. :-)

  2. Oh how I feel your sadness for Robb. It never yet always surprises me how I miss my baby seemingly out if nowhere. He is always in my mind and heart and out of the blue I just miss him… Miss him with every fiber of my being and i just want to hold him again and can only be left with asking why again.

  3. So much heartache. I weep with you tonight. Peace, dear Tricia. Peace I wish for you.

  4. I have tears for you, Tricia, and wish I could DO something to ease your pain. But, I cry, and I pray, and I hope for less painful, less lonely, less difficult days ahead for you. Good job on knowing where the blanket was, remembering the dollar tonight, and for finishing the book proposal (woo-hoo!). I pray for sweet dreams for you tonight, and visions of Robb’s entire face.

  5. Greg and I both had tears reading this. Oh, the deep ache and longing. How I wish I could take it all away… prayers for peace tonight for you, love and comfort. Keep breathing, keep living. You will be very very glad you endured these dark nights of the soul as life slowly but surely (two steps back and one forward) comes back again.

  6. Tricia, I have written you before and invited you to my home in Ventura, Ca to play at the beach. I’m one of those you don’t know. I just wanted you to know, my brother died 4 weeks ago and I can only bring myself to read your blog.I go through my e-mails and delete everything else.Life is hard. ( a side note, he was 60, with no children…still stinks though) Would you hurry and write a book already? And please, whatever you do, have the next book in the works. I fear after reading your first one, I will have that terrible, sad, empty feeling I get when a book I adore is over.
    Have a nice Memorial weekend

  7. So powerful and honest. Praying for you and your boys. So sorry you are hurting.

  8. I’ll break a plate for you, sweet girl. I wish I could give you a huge bear hug and buy you a cup of warm coffee but since I can’t I will give you my words, my prayers and my love.

  9. I will love my Krista a little more today. I will spend a few more moments with my little ladies today. Thank you for your transparency. We all need a bit of that.

  10. I’m so very sorry this is your life now, I know it seems unreal. I’m sorry for your pain! I will pray that God gives you a peace that surpasses understanding along with the ability to think of Robb while breathing normally!

  11. I am almost 10 months out and your words so touched me. I am not good with words, can’t seem to get down how I am feeling, but this describes so many of my nights. I know how you feel. I have been reading your blog and you are doing an amazing job of navigating this new life we are living, I am trying.

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