Daylight savings

It was daylight savings time this weekend. Now I'm waking up an hour earlier than we did: 6:30, naturally. You would have loved it. An extra hour in the morning, our favorite time of day together. We would be able to lay in bed, sharing and journaling our dreams, as we did nearly daily. We would be able to call Kira & Beats onto the bed, laughing about how Beats rules the roost as she would hiss a warning at Kira, who is only interested in loving her. We would kiss and embrace and maybe make gentle love. We would open the blinds and look outside, being thankful for the beautiful day, our scenic view. We would hear the wild turkeys and Beats would go on high alert. You would gently laugh as I struggled with the automatic blinds which were designed to be simple to operate.

We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless.  That's how I thought you looked too!

You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.

I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?

I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.

That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.

My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.

We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."