Seven years ago today, John and I went on our first date.
We had a warp-speed life together. We moved in together four months after our first date, then got engaged four months after that. Our wedding was another eight months later. Then one more month and we got John's diagnosis, followed by two-and-a-half years of utter insanity.
17 months + 2.5 years = 4 years, just about.
4 years is just over 10 percent of my life.
I could keep crunching numbers, but they all mean the same thing: it wasn't enough time. It could never have been enough time.
The way I miss John is becoming more and more abstract. It's now usually about the general feeling of how it felt to share a life and less about him specifically. I say this without judgment, just as an observation; with the passing of time, it only makes sense that the specifics would fade while the general feeling of happiness I had during our time together would endure. I do still try to call him on the phone on occasion. Old habits die hard. He was one of the only people in the world I didn't mind talking with on the phone.
Seven years. Funny how that's starting to sound about right. Even given all that's happened, I can wrap my mind around it all fitting into seven years. Today, I can think about our first date and feel happy. I can remember the promise that evening held. I can understand how full life can be. And I can be content, if wistfully so, with the life I have now.