Dear Austin: It’s Been Two Months

Dear Austin, where are you?

Usually when I have thoughts of sadness, angst, or despair it physically manifests as tightness in my chest and throat (along with tears, of course).

No one told me losing someone unexpectedly would physically manifest as nausea; I can’t think about the night you left without wanting to vomit (along with tears, of course). 

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I gather all of your oxygen supplies by the door for the DME company to pick up. As a borderline save-in-case-of-emergency hoarder, no one prepared me for the panic I feel giving away your equipment; how will I take care of you properly if you return home?

And this is just the first round.

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I drive your wheelchair van to the conversion-vehicle dealership we originally bought it from to get an appraisal and bid for buy back. 

I sit in the waiting area remembering how excited and proud I was that I was able to get every feature I wanted for you; I researched the hell out of that van. 

I pull out of the parking lot into a mood of soft gray skies, drizzly rain, and Bryan Adams singing “Everything I do, I do it for you” on the Bluetooth; I glance in the rearview mirror to see if you are smiling. 

“Zoom, zoom, Austin.”