christmas eve.
trading shut down.
family in town.
the day #
market closed at 1pm.
didn’t trade anyway.
A.’s parents arrived monday. her brothers tuesday.
five people in our apartment. chaos.
good chaos.
the dinner #
A. cooked for 6 hours.
prime rib. roasted vegetables. her mom’s recipe mashed potatoes.
three pies.
I set the table and stayed out of her way.
her dad helped with the carving. typical dad shit.
the moment #
after dinner.
sitting in the living room. A. next to me on the couch.
her mom telling stories about A. as a kid.
her brothers giving her shit about everything.
normal family stuff.
I don’t have this anymore.
but watching it… I’m part of it now.
the grief #
thought about mom and dad.
three years this week.
they’d love A. they’d love this.
dad would have helped with the prime rib. mom would have brought too many desserts.
didn’t cry. just… noticed the absence.
A. squeezed my hand during dinner.
she knows.
dr R next week #
already planned the session.
new year’s eve is the anniversary.
three years since the crash.
dr R says grief doesn’t go away. it just changes shape.
she’s right.
tonight #
11:38pm christmas eve.
family gathered. dinner done. A. asleep against my shoulder on the couch.
her brothers playing video games. parents watching old christmas movies.
this is my family now.
different than what I expected.
not less.
11:38pm christmas eve. family gathered. A.’s parents and brothers. prime rib dinner she cooked for 6 hours. thought about mom and dad - 3 years this week. grief doesn’t go away, changes shape. A. squeezed my hand. she knows. this is my family now.
-AK