65

65. That's the number of texts my husband and I exchanged on this date, one year ago. The thread starts with a funny, encouraging meme he sent me for my early morning workout. Then there are texts on all different topics - some joking about mundane housekeeping, some pictures of the kids, some coordinating events, some spiritually motivating, and some just meaningless filler that clearly was just an excuse for us to communicate while apart. The thread ends late at night, with me expressing confidence in him, and telling him I was going to go to sleep. That text was met with a quick reply: "Don't sleep yet. I'm coming home now."

I'm so glad I stayed up to see him. I was so in love with him. I still am.

Five days later, he went missing. The boy he'd gone hiking with was found, having died before emergency responders arrived. But Brandon was missing. He didn't have to tell me, "don't sleep yet" this time. Close friends stayed up with me, all of us hyperfocused on one thing and one thing only: was he "coming home now"? You know a situation is bad if your best hope is that your husband has a broken limb and is only out of contact because he can't reach his cel phone to call and say he's alright. When you're dreaming of a best case scenario that involves a loved one clinging for life on a cold mountainside, it's only because the worst case scenario is too unspeakably realistic an option. We spent that night hoping for word. I spent that night praying Brandon would miraculously answer his phone, which I had mostly tried to convince myself was just out of battery. I pleaded with God to override the laws of electronics and just make. the. phone. work. Through all of this - the whole past year of grief and mourning - that is the only moment I can remember experiencing the "bargaining" phase of grief. Of all the things I could beg of God, there I was begging for a cel phone to be charged. You already know how this ends, so I won't retell it now (although, truthfully, I never get tired of retelling it). He never answered his phone. The text thread from that day didn't end with a reassuring word about his certain return home. It didn't even hint at whether I should go ahead and sleep and hope for the best in the morning, or stay up just a little longer, because maybe that's when the hope affirming message would finally come through.

Eventually, I went to bed. We all did. We had no choice, really. There was no, "Don't go to sleep yet. I'm coming home." So I went to sleep. He didn't come home. ---- ---- ---- I texted Brandon earlier today. I just told him "Thank you for watching over me," which he has. So faithfully. I send him little texts here and there. And every time, I feel the familiar sense of anticipation, as if there is STILL a chance he will message back, as casually as he did one year ago today. We didn't know that one year and five days later would mark the anniversary of his final text. We didn't know that I'd be sleeping without him. We didn't know he wouldn't come home. And yet, I find myself compelled to confess that I don't actually believe he's away from home. On the contrary, it is I who am away from home. He is more at home where he is than ever he or I could feel here in this mortal sphere.

"Don't go to sleep yet. I'm coming home."

He really did go home. Funny how, in the end, knowing that, I feel alright going to sleep after all. Good night!