Four Years, Nine Months, Three Weeks, Three Days

Dear Lorenzo,

It's taken me four years, nine months, three weeks and three days to be able to say these words to you but here they are at long last.  

I'm happy again.

Finally.

You used to call me Rainbow Brite or Disneyland. For the life of you, you could not figure out how a straight shooting, call-it-like-you-see-it realist such as yourself managed to wind up with an eternally happy, annoyingly sunny optimist like me. 

On the day of your funeral I truly believed that my happiness had been buried with you but...

I was wrong.

Because four years, nine months, three weeks and three days later...

I'm happy again.

A few days ago, after posting on Facebook about how much I can't wait to come home, I received a direct message from an acquaintance from Cambridge, asking if he could take me out on a date this summer. My response was immediate and to the point "Thank you so much for thinking of me but I'm not ready to date just yet." Satisfied, I logged off of Facebook and back onto Duolingo, ready to tackle the day's Spanish lesson. It wasn't until many hours later, while Marco Poloing with a friend, that I began to actually consider my response. Was it true? Was I really not ready to date again? While I was glad that I'd declined this offer (not particularly interested in long distance)...maybe I'm not quite as "not ready to date" as I'd thought. 

Because the thing is, you were right, Babe (and you KNOW how much I hate saying that). Life isn't meant to be lived alone. And while I have no interest (or intention) of putting any actual effort into dating right now, saying I'm not ready feels disingenuous. I'm ready to start... thinking about being ready. Does that make sense? 

What I know for sure is this:

You've been dead for four years, nine months, three weeks and three days and...

I am smiling again.

Our daughter is THRIVING.

We are happy.

And no matter what, we are going to be okay. 

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