I always write about weaving in grief but never about the way I do it. I woke up this morning with my usual drink of self pity to swallow - no matter how long it is I am always a little shocked to open my eyes to an empty bed. Can't get used to not having Artie hold me in the morning with his physical body - watched part of a DVD while I ate breakfast (in bed) - got up - GOT UP - thought of the sad lyric
Cause there's somethin' in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' sure to dying that's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleepin' city sidewalk and Sunday morning coming down
answered e-mail - writing the blog - wishing I was with my husband - okay - I'm not - what can I do anyway.
I'm going to see a movie, by myself today, and work on my story for storytelling class tonight. Tonight I'll be in storytelling class performing and listening and most likely laughing a lot. Yesterday I had breakfast with two poet friends and went to a movie with with a friend who has produced a wonderful documentary about love - which somehow I am willing to see and enjoy (I have seen the rough cut.)
The sun is out, which since Artie died, annoys me - but I will try to enjoy it a little as I walk through Central Park to get to the movie theater. I will notice the families and couples and those like myself who are walking by themselves.
I'm not depressed. I'm grieving. I'm taking my grief out for a walk and I will forget for moments that it is there and then I will remember. Sometimes I am drowning in it; but I have learned in the past year and a half to swim and sometimes I am merely bobbling along on the surface of it. Last night I went to bed wearing my husbands pajamas - covered myself with his robe and his blanket and felt as I always do - a mixture of sadness, comfort and stupidity. He is dead. I am alive. I thought again about putting one of our mementos away. Just one. I don't want to. I'll know when I'm ready. No one else will.
That's what I mean about weaving. No labels - trying to make a better balance between being frozen and in motion. Somedays succeeding; somedays not. That's why I don't judge others; I am trying not to judge myself. It is hard to be alive without my husband. I know he had to leave - and hope that he has joy wherever he is - but am a little irked with him that he had me to comfort and support him to the end and I am left behind. He says - as always - that I am not alone - that he is here; loving and protecting me. I believe he is - but I am still in my human form - and his is gone. I don't know how to put that burden down so I strengthen my muscles to carry it with a little more grace; a little more ease.
Here's to some lovely Sunday memories that might surprise us even if we aren't expecting them.
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