Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes.
How do you measure, measure a year?
In truths that she learned,
Or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned,
Or the way that she died.
—From Rent, Seasons of Love
One year. One long year measured by tears and anger, pain and sorrow and yes, love. You could not take that away — it blankets and comforts me when the chill of you blows in and I am stronger for it. Two boys, amazing beings I could never have imagined and will ever adore. Autism is nothing in the face of this. Divorce and the end of us is nothing in the face of this. This is pure and honest.
When one door closes, another opens. I’m so glad to close this door, this door on one year, one year without you.