I Still Talk to Him

The first time I talked to him after he died, it just slipped out.

I was watching one of the late-night comedy shows he used to like. When he was with us, I would often leave the living room and go to bed early because raucous laughter didn’t gibe with settling into slumberland. But now I couldn’t sleep, and the familiarity was comforting.

The host told a joke that was pure Chris, about rats taking over New York City, like we had joked about this very thing the week before. 

“Did you send them this joke, honey bunny?” I gasped. And then I looked around to see who had heard me. The dog continued sleeping in his comfy den under the coffee table. 

That’s how it happens, mostly. I don’t sit down and summon him. It mostly bursts out.

And he never answers in the way you would think. But I keep talking.

If you do this too — say things to the person who’s gone, ask them for help, tell them about your day — you’re not strange. You’re human. You’re loving someone who’s not here and trying to live in a world where they should be.

Opening Up the Silence

I’m not gonna lie. In the early days, the talking wasn’t always so pretty.

It was mostly: “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE, HONEY?”

In between feeling sucker-punched emotionally, I had a through-line of pure anger. At the disease, at the hospital, at me for not emotionally intuiting that something was wrong so I could save him.

But then came the day-to-day talking. I got through the day, honey. I miss you so much, honey. I found a new apartment, honey.

WHY DID YOU HAVE TO FRICKIN’ DIE, HONEY? Yes, that kept popping back up.

There were days when we didn’t talk, and I’d wonder why. There were days when I was very chatty with him. In a small way, it helped ease the pain, to stitch up the hole that his death had left. 

I asked for help; I asked for reassurance; I asked for guidance. Like when I’d go on a date. “Whaddya think, honey?” He somehow had a way of getting back to me. And he was remarkably consistent. What I heard in my head after these queries was: “Whatever makes you happy, Sweetums.” I felt he was always there, and he would not give advice, just love. 

Knowing that, I kept talking because it kept that connection. 

What I Say

Some days, it’s as simple as:

“I saw your doppelganger staring at me in the museum.”

Or: “Where did you put the pen I gave you?”

Other days, it’s more like:

“Please come back; you’ve been gone long enough.”

Or: “This is more than I can handle.”

There are even moments I mutter: “You’d be loving this, wouldn’t you??” when something ridiculous happens that only he would appreciate. Or when I take a bite of Key lime pie—his favorite dessert. 

And yes, sometimes I get angry. I say things like: “

Why, why, why, WHY?”

Or: “You could have put me on the life insurance.”

But mostly, I just tell him things. Small updates. Thoughts I know he’d find funny. Letting rip when I’m happy with his signature sign-off: “Coolness!” I hear his goofy laugh in my head and feel his soft hand on my shoulder.

Why I Keep Talking

It’s automatic at this point. But I think it helps. Maybe? Question mark? 

But the longer truth is this: talking to him makes me feel connected. Like our love was real and everlasting. To remind myself that goodness can happen. That love was worth it, despite the loss. 

There’s comfort in pretending, yes. But it’s not just pretend. It’s a ritual. A tether. A way to keep the lines open between then and now, between who I was with him and who I’m becoming without him.

People like to talk about “closure.” As a griever, I find that word mildly offensive. It’s a way for non-grievers to get you to shut the heck up. But that’s not how this works. Love doesn’t end, so why should the conversation?

I keep talking because he mattered. Because he still does. And because silence, for me, isn’t the sign of healing — it’s the sound of forgetting. And I’m not ready for that.

So I talk. To the air. To the past. To the part of me that still belongs with him. And maybe I can’t explain it, but he hears me.

Or maybe he doesn’t. But I do. And that’s reason enough to keep going.

If You Do This Too

If you do this too — if you still talk to the person you lost — I want you to know something:

You’re not broken. You’re not crazy. You’re not doing grief “wrong.”

IMHO, there is no way to do grief wrong. There are just people telling you that you are doing it wrong. Don’t listen. 

You’re human. A human who loved someone so deeply that the words didn’t stop when their body did. A human trying to navigate the unbearable weirdness of a world where they’re not here, but you are.

So, if you catch yourself saying their name, or whispering a thought into an empty room, or asking them — out loud — “What would you do?” … don’t silence it.

That’s not madness. That’s memory staying alive. That’s love refusing to evaporate.

You don’t have to explain it. You don’t have to justify it. And no, it doesn’t mean you’re stuck. And if you are, that’s OK, too. Stuck is a relative term. 

It just means you still care. You’re still tethered. And that’s not weakness — that’s what makes you strong enough to keep going.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that grief doesn’t follow the rules — and neither does love.

I’ve learned that you can speak to someone who’s gone, virtually hug them, and imagine holding their hand.

I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. I made that mistake in the beginning, thinking that if I healed, the connection would be gone. But the connection keeps changing.

But mostly, I’ve learned that the people we love don’t vanish. Not really. They linger in the stories we tell, in the things we say out loud when no one else is around. They live in the questions we still ask and the answers we wish they could give. They live in us. And - spoiler alert - they are not going anywhere. 

Love is the most enduring substance in the universe. That sounds way corny, but I have to admit after years of grief that it is true.

So I keep talking. Because I still have things to say. And maybe — just maybe — love was never about being heard, but about being brave enough to connect.