18 years ago, right now, give or take a minute, a bottle of Western Loganberry Clearly Canadian sparkling water fell out of my hands and onto the Commons floor. 18 years ago, right now, I was wearing a cranberry sweater, white turtleneck, favorite pair of jeans, my "shit-kicker" army boots, my black trenchcoat, a black backback, a burgundy hand-tooled leather purse, hair pulled back and still damp, but I felt naked and raw surrounded by a room full of people staring at me, watching my every move. Making sure I was breathing. For a moment, I wasn't. For a moment, my heart stopped.
18 years ago was the last time I could sing "Silent Night" without crying.
18 years ago was the last time Christmas carols were beautiful to me.
18 years and 1 day ago, I had my last conversation with him. And the last words that escaped my mouth were said in anger, but felt with love.
18 years ago, I had to tell my closest friends, aside from him, that he was gone. I'd become a verbal pall bearer.
18 years ago was a day that was supposed to be the highlight of high school for me. It was supposed to be the biggest event of my senior year - bigger, to me, than prom or graduation.
18 years ago was the last day that I thought snow was beautiful.
18... 18... 18... this doesn't add up. 18 is supposed to be for life.
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