Yesterday Kyle would have turned 35.
Dugan told me several months after the accident that things will never get better, but they will get easier. It has proven to be one of a handful of sayings that was thrown my way that has stuck and that time has proven to be true. It is somewhat normal that Kyle is no longer here. This is not how it should be, but it is strangely ok. Most of our lives have become accustomed to daily life without him.
He now occupies a somewhat larger than life, almost mythical place in our stories, and I'm pretty sure he would not like this. If Kyle was anything, he was present-- always more concerned with the joy that came from touch, laughter, and irreverence, than with anyone's lofty view of who he was. But because of his influence, he did this to us, so he's going to have to live with it.
People came over last night for a cookout. I think Kyle would have been pleased that our gathering, though spurred on by his birthday, wasn't all about him. Our conversations about him were sprinkled in little asides as we talked about our right-now lives.
We held babies and made the kids laugh and there was slight bloodshed and the normal social posturing that comes with even the most emotionally mature and comfortable people.
People came and people went and I pondered how this is the story of our lives. What we do and how much we acknowledge the holiness of presence in between the coming and the going, I suppose this is the mark of a life well lived.