Letters to Jason: The Buttermilk

The powdered buttermilk you bought this spring sits in the back of the top shelf of the fridge. My cousin was here this weekend and she asked what we used it for. I can’t for the life of me remember what we were trying to make. But what I do remember is how multiple stores were out of buttermilk when we needed it. You went to three different grocery stores and at the last one, where there was nothing, ended up asking a worker who helped you find this powdered stuff. You were happy with it too, you said it’ll keep longer in the fridge anyways. That’s just who you were, Jason. I miss you and our life in ways I can’t even explain. It’s heartbreaking how some things feel so distant. Though, it doesn’t matter what we were trying to make, it bothers me I can’t remember, because a lot of good times feel so far away. I feel you slipping through my fingers, my mind fighting to find good while it continues to process all the trauma of all the bad. Normal feels so far away. But that’s because it probably is. On both ends. Normal before I lost you and whatever ‘new normal’ without you looks like. I live in a world of in between. In between what I knew and loved, a version of myself that shone so brightly with you. Now, I don’t know really who I am, not without you. But the fear of moving forward is terrifying. I can’t even imagine a world, a life, without you. Even though I’ve been living a life without you for almost 5 months now. It’s why I write, to you, about you. To bring myself and my mind to a better place that feels so so far away.