Joshua Daniel Norton 3-30-83 - 3-3-05

Today marks five years since Josh died. I know I will have to live it just like any other day, but inside I will mourn. My husband said I need to "focus on happier things, it has been five years..." That's easy for him to say. It might be easier to deal than it was five years ago, but it hurts the exact same. That hole is still there. True, it's not as raw and fresh as it once was. Other things have filled up space around it...my husband, my nephew, new friends, new memories. But that hole Josh once filled is still empty. I still have my memories of him; I can still hear his laugh, hear his voice, feel his hugs, but that emptiness almost burns. Most of the time it's in the very back corner of my mind. Always there, but not running my every action. Then something (a song or something someone says) will trigger it, and the emptiness rips through my just as violently as it did the moment I got that call. People say things heal with time. I suppose, in theory, that's true. But maybe not. The pain of losing someone, whether they've been sick and you're preparing for it or, in my case, completely unexpectedly never lessens. It's always there. Eating away at you, waiting for the moment you let it take over. But we have to learn to control it, which with time becomes easier. This week is the hardest time to control it. Rightly so, I guess. Josh deserves to be remembered, to be honored. I miss him. So much. And as the years pass I can't help but wonder how much I've changed from the Kimie he knew and loved. Am I still the girl he knew? Would he be proud of the woman I've become? Would he stand behind the choices I've made? Knowing Josh, the answers to those last two questions would be "yes." That's just who we were for each other. No matter the mistakes we made, we were always there for each other. Supportive and honest. I miss him dearly. I miss his hugs, listening to him sing me to sleep over the phone, singing with him in front of the skating rink, our deep conversations, our meaningless conversations, his laugh. In truth, I could probably write here all night about the things I miss. But I have to end this at some point.

Josh, I miss you so much. I wish we could know exactly why God called you Home so early. I wish I would have called you that night...maybe things would have been different. Or maybe not. When God says to come Home, you go. That's the only peace I have about you leaving me. I know you're in Heaven, living it up. And I know I will see you again one day, and we will fight the good fight side by side. I love you. Always.