I’ve spent the last week reliving every hour, focused on where we were this time last year.  This was the minute the police came to the house.  This was the minute Justin called me to tell me what happened.  This was the minute I arrived home.  Got on a plane.  Landed.  Went to the coroner.  Went to the funeral home.  Went to her apartment.  And on.  And on.  And on.  Because I remember every single minute.  I know what I wore, what was said.  I remember phone calls and lists and tears and confusion and pain.  All in excruciating detail.  How could I not?

It’s the rest of the month and part of the past year, that I don’t remember.  But, slowly, life started coming into focus again.  And, despite all odds, Justin seemed to come into focus again, too.  And, more than anything, I think that’s exactly what Augusta would want.