I did not wake to bacon scents or snow flurries this morning.
I did not have to carry a coffin or deliver a eulogy this afternoon.
In fact, the memory of March 21, 2009, did not disrupt today’s meditation, Pilates or two-hour conference calls with clients.
But as the sun began to set and I exchanged texts with Alberto’s mother and sister, the clutch in my throat made an appearance.
I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but working.
(Except I’m on deadline).
Any state but sober.
(Except it’s Lent).
Anything but alone.
(Except I don’t want to go anywhere.)
And so I put my ass back in the chair, finish the work and head to bed with a book.
A half-hour later, the old cell phone I use as an occasional back-up alarm makes a noise.
I don’t recognize the source of the buzzing until it happens again and I catch a glimpse of the lighted screen.
And see the welcome message he programmed in 2006:
Hello, I Love U.
And just like that, alone and home and sober on March 21, 2013, feels half-alright.
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