Still Standing in May

It’s been five months since Vic passed, but somehow, my heart is still standing in May.
His message reads like a living fragment of him — his tone, his consideration, his quiet worry for Kenzo. It’s almost impossible to comprehend that the same person who typed those words, who said “I hope I will get better,” is now gone.

Every time I look at his old messages, it feels like time folds in on itself — as if the screen could open a doorway back to when his words were still finding their way to me, warm and alive.

This message — one of his last — still catches my breath every time I read it. He wrote it in early May, apologetic yet thoughtful, asking if I could take over Kenzo’s care because he was too unwell that week. He hoped to get better. He hoped for normalcy to return. He even mentioned attending mediation for grandparenting care, thinking ahead, planning responsibly — as if life would simply keep going.

How could someone so present in thought, so careful in his words, suddenly vanish from the world just weeks later? It doesn’t feel real.

I still remember seeing his name appear on my screen that day. Back then, I didn’t know I was reading what would become part of the final chapter of his life. Now, every sentence feels sacred — not just a message, but a trace of who he was in his last days: a father still thinking of his son, still trying to prepare, still hoping for time he didn’t know was running out.

I think what hurts most is the suddenness of it all — how grief measures time differently. Five months feels like five days and five years all at once. The world moved forward, but part of me stayed behind, right there in May — the month when he was still here, still writing, still holding on to the idea of tomorrow.

Sometimes, I scroll through these messages just to feel close to him again. The digital words don’t fade like memories do; they sit frozen in time, waiting quietly, as if he might still reply.

Maybe that’s what grief really is — learning to live in two timelines at once: the one that keeps moving and the one that never will.

And so, I keep that message, not just as a reminder of loss, but as a reminder of love — of a father’s devotion, of a connection that even death can’t erase.

Because in some quiet, unseen way, we’re all still standing in May.