Mourning

I did my mourning months ago, in the first few days when I thought he would die, and then in the first few weeks when I thought he would never wake up.

That's when I cried to my mother that he holds half my memories, that fully half of my personality is inside jokes that only he knows. Without him, I am an astronaut untethered in space. 

(I'm crying again. I don't cry that much really.)

But he didn't die. He woke up. He's struggling and stuck, blind and weak and unable to stand up alone, but he's here. And he's himself, making jokes and thanking me for my work and talking about Star Wars.

I'm so glad he's here. No exaggeration; everything I need is here.

But I do think I have to mourn for the guy who's gone. The husband whose jobs were online research, filing systems, and mousetraps. The Mike who did the second leg of teaching our son to ride a bike (the pedaling part). The way I could recognize him in a crowd of people walking out of the train station by his bouncing stride. His goofy dancing.

Something is gone, someone. I don't know yet who's left. Everyone tells me six months, we're still a work in progress. God, I love him so much. But I also miss the parts that have gone missing.