I’m to a point where I generally don’t cry much when I think of Ian anymore. I still do, on occasion, but the random gut punches have faded into almost non-existence. Which is why it’s so jarring when one comes out of left field.
One day at work, I was having a conversation with the person who took over Ian’s work on the product he essentially owned. (So much so that he, shortly before his death, told me that he was the leading expert on it in the world, to which I agreed.) It was an innocuous conversation. He IMed me, proud that he had fixed a niggling long problem, and I congratulated him.
And then I started crying. Because Ian did that a lot. He’d fix something really weird… something difficult… and then he’d come brag to me about it. I thought about how differently I would have responded if it were Ian coming to me… (not very, but a little)… and I lost it.
People say this gets easier with time… I’m not sure I believe them. So far, it’s no easier. Not even a little. It’s just normal now.
Sometimes I wonder how I hold it together. Sometimes I don’t manage to do so. And sometimes I don’t think about it, and just do.
I wish he were still here to brag to me.
Written 9/29/2014
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