A Year Without Her

By Cliff Potts

September 9, 2026 – 2105

A year is a strange measure of time.

It sounds complete. It sounds like something that should mean closure, or at least a clear step forward. People mark it on calendars, remember the date, say a few words, and then expect something to have shifted in a meaningful way.

But a year without her is not a clean line.

It is a collection of days. Some heavy, some manageable, some almost normal, and some that fall apart without warning. It is not one continuous feeling. It is a pattern of moments that do not resolve into anything simple.

That is what a year becomes.

There are things you learn. You learn how to get through the day without constant collapse. You learn where the sharpest edges are. You learn which memories bring warmth and which ones still break you open. You learn how to function in a world that no longer includes the person who mattered most.

But learning is not the same as healing.

A year does not restore what was lost. It does not answer the questions. It does not make the absence reasonable or acceptable. It only proves that time continues whether you are ready for it or not.

That is the truth of it.

There is no finish line at one year. No moment where grief declares itself complete. There is only a continuation. The same life, reshaped, moving forward one day at a time, carrying what it carries.

And yet, there is something else.

There is endurance.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands recognition. Just the quiet fact that you are still here, still moving, still doing what needs to be done. That may not feel like much, but it is not nothing.

A year without her is not a conclusion.

It is a measure of how long love continues in absence.

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