One of the first books about widowhood I read right after Rick’s death was The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. I’ve always been an avid reader, so my natural response to anything is to search out a book that relates to whatever stage of life I’m in. I found the book to be exactly how it was described… “a powerful and honest account of grief, exploring themes of love, loss, memory, and sanity as Didion tries to make sense of her profound loss and the ‘magical thinking’ that accompanied her mourning process.” It was a comfort to read about someone who understood what I was experiencing.
I was steeped in magical thinking for a long time. When lights blinked in my house, I thought, he’s here! And I’d immediately begin talking to him, telling him how much I missed him, or whatever was on my mind at the time. Even a year after his death, I was still hoping for some miraculous sign that he was with me. On my solo drive from Michigan to Florida, just after leaving the Jack in the Box drive thru we used to love stopping at in Franklin, Tennessee, one of his favorite songs came on the car radio. I sang along with the song, tears in my eyes. In the middle of the chorus that he used to belt out in his booming baritone voice, the passenger “seat occupied” light came on! He was there! He was with me! I knew it!