Mornings are the hardest. It doesn’t matter if the sun is shining or the sky is covered in clouds. I’ve been in tears within an hour of getting up each day this week. It’s just hard to see a new day and think about the future without Ed creating ideas with me.
I never know what’s going to set off the sadness. Yesterday, I think it came from talking about these plush toys that Ed and I had talked about developing. I went back to my notes for what they were called and found the names in a file from November and I just started falling apart. It was less than a year ago that we planned to fill 2017 and beyond with a million creative ideas. And most of it is still unfinished. While I was looking through Ed’s computer to find the files for Fucking Forty, I found a drawing of him and me, standing in front of a sea of people. I don’t know when he started it, and I have no idea what he planned to do with it.
When Ed passed, if felt like my future shattered into a million pieces. And now I’m sifting through the wreckage and picking up the pieces that I want to take with me. Maybe that’s why mornings are the hardest: each day I have to choose which pieces to pick up and which to leave behind.