The countdown states 699 days.
It has been 699 days since he died,
since I recieved a phone call.

It was supposed to be a simple vacation.
With the turn of the tide he slipped under the waves,
fighting the current, struggling to come back to the surface.

I have never seen the beach where he took his last breath.

We grieved as a family. We cried as a family.

Exactly 365 days later, we went away. 
Into the mountains we disappeared, looking for an escape.

The trip was a much-needed backslide.
The scabs on our wounds were scratched off.
We knew that was not healthy.
But health be damned, we felt better. 

I stood at the edge of Blowing Rock,
looking over the side;
the sheer drop made me dizzy.

It was then I realized that I had changed.

I learned the importance of family. 
I learned what it meant to be a family.
I learned that your friends may be there,
but your family truly understands.

I learned that life is fleeting,
that the moments we take for granted
are the moments you recall the most
when you wake in the night,
with short breath and blurring eyes.

I have changed. 

I am no longer the girl I once was.

The girl 700 days ago,
her biggest worry was a broken necklace 
and the attentions of a boy in her class.

I cannot find my necklace,
nor do I remember that boy's name.

My big worries are still superficial,
but I know they're small,
that they will no longer matter in three weeks.

I remind myself that life is fleeting,
and I enjoy it any way I can.