I typically make an effort to avoid procrastination.

I think everyone who knows me understands my efforts to avoid procrastination, but this one got away from me too easily. It’s been six days since I had every intention of greeting the 24th with a witty, fun jumble of words to commemorate Diane’s departure from this mortal plane.

When I check the calendar and realize she’s been gone for a year, I’m stunned for two reasons. One, in my head she’s still with me. I see her everywhere throughout my endless days, and two, I wonder how it could already be a year when the days seem to drag on forever. It just doesn’t seem possible that that much time could slip by me like that.

But, here we are, 373 days after the fact. Having Lydia sitting quietly beside me in Diane’s recliner most every evening eases my pain. Yesterday, when I got up to make my way to bed, I told her what a comfort it is to have her by my side like this because it almost feels normal, and it really does.

Max misses her, too. He still sleeps on her housecoat that she left on our bed when we moved her to the living room to die. That sounds terrible, I know, but it’s the truth. We all knew it was going to happen and there was nothing we could do to change it, and it was her desire to escape the pain, but looking back we should have picked a better name for the room. Living room? Far from it. We should have put her in the kitchen.

She was only there for one night, and much of the next day, before she took her last breath. The house was teaming with people, and everyone was fine tuned to her most of the time, as they talked amongst themselves, but there was a collective gasp, then not a sound as she left us. All eyes went to her and I’m sure we all saw her soul leaving. We just didn’t know what we were looking at.

At the time, knowing this was going to happen, I couldn’t totally believe that she was gone. I wanted to sit her up so she could breath better but it was made clear to me that wouldn’t make a difference. She was gone. I held her face in my hands and pressed my forehead against hers, trying to absorb whatever remaining life she could give me.

I never said goodbye because we didn’t use that word. We always, without fail, parted with a “See you later” instead. We used those parting words many times over the years when whatever ship I was on sailed away as she and the kids stood waving on the pier. In a way, enduring those departures as we did took the edge off of what we shared on October 24th, 2025 at 1515 in the afternoon.

We’ll see each other again.

Be safe.