Today is the first anniversary of the death of one of my dearest friends. His name was John, but he bred rabbits and collected stuffed ones and actually kind of looked like one, LOL, so he picked up the nickname that way.

I still don't really believe it's possible he's gone. I've been to his grave a couple of times, and usually that makes it more real for me, but not with him. I look at the dates on the headstone, and I look at the ground, and I think "You aren't really there. This didn't really happen." His spirit is still so present to me that I keep expecting him to walk around the corner, or hear his voice, or be able to go to a ball game or dinner with him. I've had a year to adjust to this, and I'm totally not adjusted.

I have nothing but good memories, which is a gift. John was all about laughter and joy and fun. Even when I was in the depths of the abyss, he could find a way to make me laugh and try to get me out of it. We had differences of opinion, but we never argued, and I never heard him raise his voice, to me or to anyone -- he always believed the best about people and granted them the right to their views.

It's a year later, and every time I pass a cute stuffed bunny, I think "oh, I should buy that for John," and then am devastated when I realize I can't. I think of things to tell him, and realize I can't. We had a tradition of always going to a Brewers-Cardinals game, since we were both St. Louisans living in Milwaukee, and I haven't been able to go since he died, even though it was always the highlight of the season for me, because it's just not the same without him. We went to one right after he got sick, and he was so disoriented from the meds that it was a really disturbing experience for me. I haven't been back.

I know he had an eye on me while I was so sick and I believe he helped me get through it. But not being able to see him, touch him, hear him, just hurts.



Candy