I had a dream. And not in the Martin Luther King way. This dream in no way will or has affected anyone but me. It’s not life altering and altruistic or helpful in any way, shape or form. But it made me happy and sad all at the same time. The illustrious? elusive? irritating? “they” say that our loved ones can maybe perhaps sometimes come back to us in our dreams. And it’s no surprise to me, or anyone that knew him well, that Ash’s visits to my dreams (or anyone else’s for that matter) are few and far between. But last night he came to me. To question why on earth I wasn’t practicing golf at least 30 minutes every day and playing at least once a month. And in my dream, I burst into tears and I hugged his neck so hard. I told him how much I loved him. And he told me to answer the question. So dream Kellie explained to dream Ash? Angel Ash? Literal man of my dreams Ash? that golf was our thing, that he taught me and without him, it is not the same, I am not the same. And that’s true for more than just golf. The dream then got quite strange after that…Dream Ash said he wanted to go on the boat and, ahem, get it rocking. So that was interesting.

I woke up mid walking with him to the boat that should be noted I no longer own. That went bye bye shortly after he did. And I lie awake for hours. Thinking of him, thinking of our life together, what we had, we he’s missed and what we still on Earth miss about him. We’re coming up on the 6th anniversary of his death, and every year, I think it will be easier. But every year I am reminded that it never gets easier. Because I am reminded of so many things. A girlfriend of mine was talking about Cymbalta the other day, the anti depressant. Back when Ash was alive, we had cable (something I’ve since gotten rid of) and on cable there are commercials (in case you don’t know how that whole shebang works) and years ago, Ash was alive, as was Bogey Brown (the dog) and we used to always joke that Bogey was suffering from depression (I know, depression isn’t funny but it is when you’re talking about the dog). I can’t remember the Cymbalta commercial and I can’t remember why we found it so funny but Ash used to pretend he was Bogey and re-enact the Cymbalta commercial as the dog. I can hear his dog voice plain as day but I cannot for the life of me remember the funniness and why Bogey was involved or what even he said other than “Bogey” and “Cymbalta” in his best Scooby Doo-esque voice. And that’s the thing with time. It fades things. It plays tricks on you. What you think you should remember falls away and you know it’s there, somewhere, you know something happened, something that made you smile, laugh, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it was. And that’s hard. I think that’s why I share so many memories about Ash. Because who else is keeping him alive? Who else cares enough to worry about the funny things he said, the way he made us laugh, the annoying things that drove us crazy and the way he obsessed about all of us and our golf swings. There are only a few of us left.

It’s just hard to fathom that I have now known my oldest son for longer than I knew Ash. We created him together, yet Ash is no longer a part of it. It’s also hard to fathom that our youngest has lived longer without a father than he had with his father. It’s heartbreaking if you let yourself go there. Which I always do this time of year. Because this is when we are reminded of what we lost and how quickly time flies by.

The good news is, in general, we are well. The boys are thriving. Jack is loving life at his new school with his new baseball program. His elbow is recovering, physical therapy is going well, his grades are decent given that he’s pretty much on his own learning about self discipline and deadlines and he’s hitting the shit out of the ball. Colt is still wonderfully weird and hilarious, making fantastic grades, giving the best hugs, building his Lego empire and keeping me on my toes. I love my new job. I am grateful for the amazing humans in my life that love and accept me, and I feel happier than I have in a very long time.

Enter guilt. It’s hard to accept that we can be happy. But that’s the nature of life. Your grief can consume you or you can consume it. It’s a real sink or swim situation. And that’s not to say we have’t sunk our fair share of times. Hell, I prefer to sink all of November. Maybe one day I’ll put my big girl panties on and not be such a bitch baby about it but today is not that day. This week is not that week. This week I will miss my husband, I will miss the family that we co-created, I will have my pity party and eat my cake, too. I think I got some wires crossed there, who says you can’t combine cliche sayings?!

The good news is I also know what a good place I am in. I feel good. Naturally. Because I have fought tooth and nail to find my happy again. I have tried so many different things to get to where I am today. I did the total grief phase, the hoe phase, the alcoholic phase (kinda coincided with the hoe phase), the pretend I’m in love with someone phase, the actual fall in love with someone phase followed by another grief phase for more reasons than one, and, finally, I am in a happy phase (present month excluded). And I am proud. I didn’t always make the best decisions, I didn’t always take the best care of myself but everything I did has lead me to where I am right now – happy children, job I love, best friends a girl could ask for, supportive family, independent, resilient, strong. (Again, present month excluded.)

I don’t know what’s next for JonesBoysMama and I don’t know that I’ll bring you along for what’s next. I do know that there will be plenty of laughter, lots of love and a sprinkling of mischief.