2 years.

two years.

It doesn't sound like a very long time at all. Just 24 months. 730 days. 17, 520 hours. If you think about it, that's nothing in the grand scheme of things.

But I'm not sure that days or hours or minutes are really the best way portray or measure time; they just don't accurately convey how much things change, or how much we change, during a given period. Two years is easy to say, easy to think of. But what if we measured time in a different way? Maybe in tears shed? In life lived and lost? In people we love? If we measured time by how much we change, by how much we learn and grow and grieve, I think we would see that, for many of us, two years is a very, very long time.

Two years ago, a line was drawn, a big, thick, dividing line that has forever changed how I view life: everything since that day has been divided into the "before" and "after." I find myself looking at pictures and thinking, "Was this before it happened? Was it after?" It's become almost a point of reference, a concrete moment in time that changed everything. People say that time heals all wounds. Perhaps that's true. But, in my experience, no amount of time can ever get rid of the scars that those wounds create. And sometimes, watching the wound heal and slowly fade is just as painful as the wound itself. Maybe I don't want it to fade. Maybe I want to feel it the same way that I did when it was brand new. Because it proves that it was there, that she was there, and I don't want that connection to her to ever fade. 

When I woke up this morning, two years after Merideth's passing, I didn't want to get out of bed. I wanted to close the curtain and sleep the day away in total darkness. That's the thing about grief: it's exhausting, and sometimes, we need a day to just lean into it and let it consume us. So, I spent the day with Brandi Carlile, which seemed only fitting; her low, rich voice takes me back to Merideth like no other, and it brings with it both a joy and a sadness that don't really contradict, but rather heighten the strength and experience of the other. I heard the slow piano, and I remembered Merideth telling me about this particular song, jokingly proclaiming in her silly Southern accent that she was sure that Brandi wrote the song specifically for her,

“Tell me, did I go on a tangent? 

Did I lie through my teeth?

Did I cause you to stumble on your feet?

Did I bring shame on my family?

Did it show when I was weak?

Whatever you've seen, that wasn't me.

That wasn't me, oh that wasn't me.”

Bum bum bum bum.

Sometimes the world just feels so dark, so heavy. But, if there's anything I've learned in these past two years, it's that dawn comes at the end of the night. There's hope. All I can do is hold onto that promise through the darkness, and in the dawn, I'll hear Brandi's voice begin anew, 

“I wanna believe, do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet?

When you fall I will get you on your feet.

Do I spend time with my family?

Did it show when I was weak?

When that's what you've seen, that will be me.

That will be me. Oh, that will be me. ”

You are a blessing, and I love you, sweet Merideth. I am so proud of who you are. Every ounce of love that I have in my poor heart goes out to you. I pray that it reaches you.