Sometimes I just want to be done with this, but even as I think that,
am not reconciled with what that means.
Dave is not done, is not
ready, and I can’t imagine what it must be like to be him. His life
has wrung itself out more than mine, that’s true, but I don’t
think he loves his life any less than I do.
Yesterday, he wanted to invite his cousin to come stay here
overnight. I have never met this cousin and suddenly he feels this new
attachment to him and a list of other cousins he’s never met. I
told him that I didn’t feel up to it when in truth I just tired of
all the fuss around entertaining strangers. Maybe I should be willing
to give it a try, but I just don’t want to.
I can’t imagine a world, my world, without Dave in it. In fact, I
can’t have one. Dave and I have been together 37 years and I think
of how each thing I do every day will affect him. Everything. Every
day. I will never shed that habit. Never.
A widow, then, must be alone only in the physical sense—the old
practical concerns no longer apply. But the thought processes—I
will never have enough time to unlearn those.
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