It's the mundane hours that highlight the disruptions.
The cold silence is choked with memories and the last spoken words, sounds, sights.All is disrupted, blown apart, disassembled.
There were times in the last few years when I tried on this particular grief, to get the feel of it, to be prepared. It was a vain practice... This is not what I expected.
Every song, story, utterance is filtered through memory.. like a sheer piece of fabric imprinted with them is billowing front of me blurring everything.. Maybe it's just the tears
I have moments when my grief is only a mild ache in the background.
And then a sound, a word, a memory surfaces and the new scab is removed and the rawness is revealed.
It takes me a while to pull myself into a semblance of ok and take the next step to whatever
My husband of fifty years died on January 15 2022. I remain raw and exposed to the waves of pain and desolation
