My first Christmas without you.

Was out past dark tonight for the first time in a very long time. This whole pandemic thing and the husband-not-being-home thing means I spend a great deal of time by myself, at home, alone. 

Of course, the Christmas lights are out. A lot of them, too, it seems. And it's so fucking painful. 

You see, this is my first Christmas without you. 

The first, you ask? That's not right. 

We'll chronologically, you're right. It's the fourth Christmas you'll spend with her. But in my head, it's the first without you. 

In 2017, you were here on Christmas Eve ... or the day before Christmas Eve, I can't remember exactly. We ran to my mom's to show off Bootsie and Rosie and to let everyone know that you had a hot, high-paying load, so you had to miss church and Christmas Day. 

I didn't have a God damn clue. 

I even joked to my mom and my sister ... remember? I said I made you come along and explain to them what was going on, so that they wouldn't think you were divorcing me ... because I knew they'd worry. You told them that we were facing some big bills and that you needed to sit your butt in the truck and drive. 

Again, I didn't have a fucking clue. 

So, if you're keeping score, this will be the fourth Christmas you have spent away from me. 

However, in my head and my heart, it is the first one. 

In 2017, I thought we were together. 

In 2018, you were still back and forth enough, just enough, to let me believe it was going to be OK. You let me know you wouldn't be home, and it broke my heart, but I chose to believe what you were telling me. 

In 2019, you told me you were at Pete's and said you'd meet me at church. By this point, the doubts were obviously there. I begged you to come home. I told you there was no way that you were going to show up at church on Christmas Eve when you hadn't been able to see me face to face in a few months. 

You promised me you'd be there. You swore you were going to be there. 

And, then on my drive to Fort, you called. You told me you were having a mental breakdown and you couldn't be there. You cried in anguish. You sobbed. You sounded like someone was torturing you. You told me it was a full-blown panic attack. 

You even texted with Bella to talk about your panic attack. You pulled an unstable, struggling child into your web of lies. 

I cried, too. Right along with you. I even texted Lorri to give her a head's up that you wouldn't be there ... so I didn't have to face all of the "Where's Jim?" questions that would come. I knew I couldn't hold it together if everyone asked. I told her you were having some issues with depression and anxiety and she graciously understood. 

That was the moment I got really scared. I didn't know where you were. I didn't know what was going on. You were a mess and I was alone. Again. 

But you were still mine. 

You were still telling me you loved me and that we were going to be OK. 

This year is different.

You have FOUR YEARS worth of new traditions. You help her with the tree. Maybe she makes your favorite cookies. Maybe you get a great ham. You shop together for those cute kids. You watch them open gifts and help them assemble the remote control car. You laugh and you snuggle and you smile and you share all of it. All of you. 

All the while, I sit here by myself. I made countless excuses about where you were every time one of your friends asked. I had to open all the Christmas cards that are addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Sympson or Jim and Lisa. I have to run into people we know at the grocery store and smile when they say, "How's Jim?" I have to wrap presents by myself and load the car and forget the Christmas tree and lights. Haven't had them up in 3 years. Can't bear to do it. Do I send all of your ornaments to you at some point? Do you even want them? 

That little boy sits in your lap and you tickle him and tease him and play with him. You tell him about Santa. And yet you haven't even bothered to look at your own granddaughter. If you think that doens't kill your kid, you're wrong. It kills her.  

Looking at those Christmas lights is painful. Remembering all the times you hung that big ass wreath on the front of the house hurts down in my bones. Thinking about waking up with you on Christmas morning drops me to my knees. 

Please come home. 



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