AKA "The Writing Woman"
Relegated to photos and memories You, who were here only weeks ago No longer tangible, touchable, real Relegated to pictures and memories You, who I loved with all my being No longer here in my bed Relegated to pictures and memories Captured digitally and on 4×6 prints Part of my elusive dreams
Evenings are the worst. Coming home from work to an empty house – the new normal. No plans, no dinner, no evenings on the deck, chatting about our day, drinking wine and eating appies and listening to Five for Fighting Pandora. No watching you prep and grill dinner while I grab a swim. No moving…
I just found the announcement we were going to post on Facebook in March 2017. I think we both felt that the time was never right: Rick is pretty private when it comes to talking about personal issues on FB, but I have to announce something major. The truth is, after his sudden “sodium issues”…
Pain menu Which memory shall I select? What will bring on the tears? You at the end? Hooked to monitors, breathing by machine? You at the beginning? Our first date? Our first kiss? Or the many options from the 21 years in between? The memory selection is endless. The choices are triggered with little to…
You’re supposed to be in the next room. It’s Friday, work at home day. We’re supposed to chatter back and forth all day, you in your office across the hall, me in mine. But it’s silent. I can’t hear your big fingers clacking away at the keyboard – the fastest hunt and peck typing I’ve…
We did everything together. I sit here mourning your death, and I think, who would understand this pain? We did everything together. Since you retired in 2011, you’d drive me to work in the morning, pick me up and take me to lunch, then pick me up and take me home. On Fridays, I worked…
The world talks of the solar eclipse. The day you died, pain eclipsed my world.
Once you got the death sentence, you said there was nothing we could do about it. But you didn’t die that Christmas, and you didn’t die that spring. And we got Christmas with the family. And we got spring in Florida. And – in between hospital visits – we got summer at home. We got…
This is our house. You planted these ficas in the front yard. You built these wooden pillars to cover the old colonial ones. You carried this bench to the front porch – the one that we brought from our home in Maryland. You cut this grass. You put in the new front door, and put…
You thought you couldn’t live without your Aunt Pat You thought you couldn’t live without your mom You thought you couldn’t live without your dad And now Rick It gets harder and harder as people leave you. Your special support system. Those who loved you like no other person ever did. And I type this…