There is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing extra on top of what I've begun to call "normal, every day grief." There's just a sudden tightness in my throat, a sudden heaviness in my chest, and all at once, I'm crying...
I've realized that lately I'm not crying over Rick. I'm crying over myself. I drown in that pool of self-pity sometimes, so weighed down with the cold hard facts of my life. Widowhood. Extra responsibility. A childless existence. A vast future of unknown proportions. The concept of
I see tons of people every week. I meet up with friends. I drive to Connecticut. I see my family. I am busy. I do things. And yet... I'm painfully aware of my own solitude. I don't mind being alone, except for those times late at night when everything is quiet but my mind and the darkness outside feels so heavy. For all my bravery and positivity, there are times when I feel like I'll die if someone isn't there to hold me.
But no one is there.
And I don't die.
Instead, I look for a cushion...
I find comfort in the steady rhythm of my feet on the ground as I run. I find comfort in the spontaneous mid-day laughter shared with my coworkers. I find comfort in the two little cats that so sweetly sit with me every evening. I find comfort in the positivity wall in my office. I find comfort in the very kind words of friends and even strangers. I find comfort in music.
The comfort is a cushion so that when the grief crashes into me like a wave and I stumble, I fall into something soft and reassuring. If I bother to look, it is always there.