It's a far cry from the world we thought we'd inherit

This weekend is tough. Bad enough that this week brought the four-month anniversary of Jay's death. But today is my two-year anniversary of moving to Portland, and I'm celebrating it alone.

That's not meant to be a sweeping dramatic statement, just a statement of fact and emotional truth.

This weekend I'm reprising the trip we took together last year to celebrate this anniversary, driving down to stay in Klamath Falls and visit Crater Lake. We were thwarted last year in actually seeing Crater Lake by the government shutdown.

So here I am this year, on my own, going to see the sights we didn't see together last year.

So much changed over the last year, and looking back over it all, I can't even begin to think where I'll be this time next year. While Jay was alive, we were living in the two-month box - the time between his scans. Right now, I'm living in the one-month box - the time between the start of months, every turning of the calendar page another stab to the heart.

But I'm starting to feel the stirring of an emotion I consciously shut down while Jay was alive and ill - I'm beginning to feel hope for the first time in a long time. I don't know hope for what yet, maybe just hope for a new life. But I can feel it beginning in tiny excited flutters, from time to time, in and around the grief.

So I mark this anniversary, knowing that this time next year, I'll be in a different place, and looking forward to seeing where I might be.