My to do list isn’t even my own.  It’s really James’, but he isn’t here so it has become mine.  The things on the list -chores around the farm- would never have felt like chores to him.  They only feel that way to me for the emotional baggage that comes from each one.

I spent hours on his yellow seat moving brush from last year’s piles, hoping to get it burned down, but it was too wet to keep a flame.  

I cleaned the garage, a task I haven’t done since we said our vows, but one that was long overdue.  The end result speaks volumes to the path ahead: only one car needs to fit here; the potting bench has a new home with the shift in priorities; the cabinets repurposed for my needs. 

The day ended as all our days together did – sitting on the porch, soaking up the sun, listening to the birds, the frogs, the chickens, even the horses across the road.  

But the seat beside me is empty and my heart feels the same.  I’ve never known loneliness like this before.  The lack of companionship, the lack of conversation, the lack of shared moments.  

A year ago, on a day just like this, we sat here, he and I.  I can’t recall what tasks we crossed off the list that particular day, but I remember the tears that flowed as we sat here on the porch.  “What if this is our last spring together?” I wondered out loud.  We were only just beginning to grapple with the diagnosis then, but the concept felt inconceivable and terrifying.  

And yet, here I am.  Crying those same tears, sitting beside an empty chair trying to navigate the inconceivable, terrifying path ahead of me. 

Alone.