The 27th of the month has had a new meaning for me for the past several months. This month’s 27th meant Young Jackson James turned two-years and eleven months old. It also marked the seventeenth month since Ruth’s accident.
Last month I completed a blog on the morning of the twenty-seventh. The final touch was finding a photo to accompany the story. I found a cartoonish picture of an MRI machine, inserted it into the post and saved it. After that I previewed what it would look like when I uploaded it and found everything to be in order. I was good to go.
That evening, just before I headed to bed, I rechecked the story just like I do every time I post. This time, part of the story had disappeared. The picture was gone. It was there and then it wasn’t.
I fretted about the missing picture but went to bed hoping I could fix the blog before I pushed “post” in the morning. I got up early, because I wasn’t sure how long it would take to reload, but when I looked, everything was OK. Ruth was just messing with me again.
The thing I miss most is the – again – part of her. Unless I count the times, she continues to show up unannounced, we won’t have any again times. Again means at least once more and we don’t have any mores. No sharing, seeing, speaking, planning, holding hands, hugs or kisses. I recall all of our firsts but didn’t recognize all of our lasts. Over time I took those moments for granted. My advice to you is “don’t” because you can’t be sure that you’ll have another again.