You are the obstacle course I avoid, The detour I make, The abyss I elude. Because it hurts so much to think of you, and to not think of you. I haven’t figured that out yet. You are in a place of limbo, I’m afraid. I sit here this morning writing about the new things
A friend had told me about it: Our House. A grief support group where people gather to speak of their losses, to share their grief. Last night was my first meeting. I looked around the group, women and men from different walks of life, all gathered together linked by this common denominator. The room was silent, there
Mike was a carpenter. He loved doing projects around the house, especially wood working. His favorite pastime upon retiring was to make things – our bed frame, a ‘window’ between the kitchen and the pantry, my jewelry box. I was always impressed by the time and care he took with the details, it was his
I’ve started gorging on food, To full and beyond. Eat and stuff, eat and stuff. Chicken and bread and cheese and peanut butter. Seeking to fill the void. But not just the void, the Other. Going back to the refrigerator again and again. Devouring seconds and thirds. Shoveling mouthfuls of rice while
What is the jumping point for this writing? Where do I begin? You are joining me mid-chapter. So perhaps I need to bring you up to date. On May 8, my husband Mike went in for a simple surgery. Two and a half hours and a thousand sorries later, they told me he was gone.