Weekends

Had a perfectly fine day. Work is going well. Family is doing well. Spent quality time with my son today. But every Friday it starts. At around 5pm. Most people love it. They plan things for it. The weekend. The long, drawn out, slow weekend. It seems to be never ending. When he was alive that's how I used to be. Couldn't wait for the work week to be over, school to be over so we could sleep in, go to the flea market, yard sales, catch a movie, just do whatever. Sometimes together. Sometimes not. Not anymore. I can't wait for 6am Monday morning. Weekends have become unbearable. Don't know why but today the grief has just come crashing down. Sitting outside crying, cars driving by. I do not even care. My chest hurts. Sometimes I want to check myself into a hospital just for the weekend. Just so someone can take care of me. I miss him. I hate this loneliness. Keep busy. Bring work home. Clean the house for the 10th time. Only so much you can do. So many games you can play. Just keep going. Monday will be here soon. The weekend can't last forever.

2 & 1/2 years

Today. Exactly two and a half years since you died. I was sad most of the day and cried a few times. Especially when me and our son went and put your Dad sign on your grave for Father's Day. He didn't deserve for you to die. He needs you. He will be promoted from 5th grade tomorrow. Another milestone that I will have to witness alone. Without you. Things are different yet the same. We live in a different home, I finally put your boots, jacket, toothbrush away. Yet I still feel you. I feel your laughter when I do something silly. I feel your smile when I accomplish a tough task. I feel your love when I'm lonely. It's still so very hard. I wish you would have told me who to call to fix things. Set me up with a handy man. Someone you trusted. I'm trying to go on living. Some days I feel like you are only in Canada on field service and will be home any day. That's how much we have kept your spirit alive with us. Then there are other days it seems we were never married or that life was long, long ago. The grand kids still talk about you. Especially your namesake. Your big son still goes to your grave and doesn't want me to date or remarry if you can believe that. I'm going to step out of my comfort zone and actually go out this weekend. With people who aren't my family. Strangers that I've known since you died. I'm afraid. But I know I need to. I think it will be good for me. I know they will get it. Get me. I think you would be proud of me and how I have kept going despite the grief, the problems, the anxiety, the loneliness. I just keep doing what needs to be done. For our son. For me. I look at pictures of me pre widowhood and notice my eyes. How they sparkle, seem to be filled with life. The pictures of me post widowhood are different. My eyes are dull, lifeless. I want to change that. I want them to sparkle again. I think you would want that too. I think of how you used to look at me. I would catch you just staring at me. With so much love. So many people never get to experience what we had. I am so grateful I had the years I had with you. I miss you so much. I love you.

I saw him

At the gas station. He was in front of me. I couldn't see his face, just his back. It looked just like his back. It hit me smack in the face. I wanted to reach out & touch him. This man. This stranger. Next thing I know I'm driving down the road, sobbing, trying to see with blurry eyes, tears streaming. I stopped at his grave and just sat on the grass and cried till my chest started physically hurting. Burning pain. Just when you think you have a handle on your life, the grief, it jumps out at you. I miss him so much, moments like these make me wonder how I have been able to breathe as long as I have without him. Just to touch his face. His arm. His hand. His toes. Anything. Just to see him in the flesh. As I sat on the grass crying looking at his name chiseled in the headstone, I kept thinking "He's right beneath my feet. Right under me." So close. Yet he's not. Then as I left the cemetery I found myself behind a bus. Still crying I noticed the number on the bus. 13. Our number. Usually these little signs bring me comfort. Not today. I cried harder. I don't want signs. I want him. That's all I want. Just bring him home God.