Ours

Almost everything is ours. Of course there are some things that aren’t, like our toothbrushes and phones and specialty grooming products. But everything that could be shared is. Was. Does that change? I still think of them as our things. Every time I say “we” to someone who doesn’t get it, it stings. But it also stings every time I catch myself saying “my” instead. No matter what, it sounds wrong, feels wrong, is wrong.

I look at our game catalog and I can’t remember which ones were “yours” or “mine” and I don’t recall all the ones we got together. When I listen to our shared playlists, I’m not sure whose algorithm contributed many of the songs. I only watch youtube on “your” account, but we essentially shared it, so it’s like a curated blend of things we each watched and also watched together. Sometimes I watch shorts of creators you liked in the hopes that it’ll make me feel closer to you. It often does.

Even the cats who were once mine became ours. When Dinkie passed away, my only comfort was that she was going home to you. I still refer to Bacon as our boy.

One phrase I can’t stop thinking about is “our silly little life.” We revisited that idea over and over, and I miss the ease with which it used to come out of my mouth. When the doctors and nurses came into the room to tell us that they couldn’t resuscitate you, I screamed at them to keep trying, that we were just getting our lives back.

Perhaps that’s unfair of me to have said, because the cancer was unfortunately your illness even if it did affect me a lot. But you always acknowledged how tough it was on me, knowing firsthand how awful it is to see the person you love in pain. I said it then and I’ll say it again now: if I could have taken that pain from you, carried it myself, I would have. A thousand times over I would shield you from the discomfort, the nausea, the constant poking and prodding, the endless medicines, and above all, the pain.

I still refer to most things as ours. Our car, which we spent so many hours in from August to December. Our apartment, which we worked so hard to make home. Our life. I don’t think I’ll ever disentangle myself from that, nor do I want to. From the moment we met, my life was forever changed, and you leaving this earth cannot undo the massive mark left on it. You’re mine, I’m yours, and the life I am now living is forever ours.