I Miss Her

I miss my girl today.

I miss her smile, her voice, her touch.

I miss brushing her hair.

I miss the monotony of our morning routine. I miss helping her pee and dress and brush her
teeth.

I used to hate the smell of the raspberry instant oatmeal she liked for breakfast. Today I try to
remember it.

I miss her.

I miss the way she lived, always looking forward to what would come next. Even if next was just
a trip to the grocery store, or a doctor appointment, or a bath.

She was easy and kind, and compliant. I miss that.

And I miss who I was with her.

I miss caring for her.

I miss researching cures and alternatives and possibilities.

I even sometimes miss the exhaustion of it all.

My rationale goes something like this:
If I were breathing in the foul smell of the raspberry instant oatmeal, that would mean she’d be
here with me – still. If I were brushing her teeth and brushing her hair – that would mean she’d be
here with me – still. If I were searching for cures and alternatives and possibilities, that would
mean that she’d be here with me – still.

But she’s not.

And I miss her.

And yes I know, that missing her allows me to somewhat misconstrue, maybe even glorify the
things that were hard.

And yes I know, that if she were here with me still, our days would be long, and probably our
nights even longer. And yes I know, that she’s pain-free now and she is in a better place.

But I miss her; I miss her smile, I miss her voice, I miss her touch.