A year had passed. Somehow I had gotten up every morning, made it through the day and dropped into bed at night, only to lay awake, tossing and turning for hours until the first rays of sunlight filled the room.

I wondered if it would always be like this. Somehow, I thought it would.

My dreams were full of him, remembering milestones, our wedding, the day we moved into our new home, birthdays and anniversaries. Those dreams comforted me, and I woke feeling as if I could face another day.

Other nights had me waking in a cold sweat as I remembered his last days, the hours spent sitting at his bedside, hoping up until the last moment that a miracle would happen. In my dreams it did, and he was still with me, but the light of day brought reality and loneliness.

I knew he was with me every second of the day. I could feel his presence as I walked through our quiet house, mementoes everywhere that reminded me of our life together. Photos adorning the walls, gifts that we had exchanged displayed on every available surface. Cartons of cards and letters he had given me over the years kept safely in my room, within reach, so I could lose myself in his written words I could hear him saying when I read them.

Everyone told me to move on, not forget, but start living again. I tried, but it was too much effort. I didn’t believe I lived in the past. I lived in the present, surrounded by memories of the past, which to me was different. Thoughts of all we still had to look forward to if he hadn’t been taken from me still haunted me. I knew I should be grateful for the twenty years we had together, and I was, but I wanted more. I would always want more.

Was it wrong for me to imagine him still with me, falling asleep as if I could feel his arms wrapped around me, hearing his laughter when I did something silly?

I knew he was never going to walk through the door, be here with me physically again, but he promised he’d never leave me, and I could still feel him by my side.