It’s six months and two days since Aubrie died, and a glimmer of something new is beginning to appear. I have an opening to breathe again; it’s a small thing, but a beginning. I’ve begun to remember our good times with a joy instead of sorrow. Her giggle. Her smell. Our cuddles.

Those echoes don’t bite like they did, or not entirely. They do still hurt, but they warm just as much. I can see the hint of a new way to hold our marriage now.

I lost my wife to cancer last month — our daughter lost her mother. I’ve hesitated sharing any of this, but there is something I want to record. Fair warning: this is mostly about love. I’m devastated. A hole has opened where I thought my identity lived. I’m discovering new ways that I loved her every day, and grieving each, and trying to celebrate them.