The Cruelest MonthNov. 13, 2005. The day my world ended. Dec. 13, 2005. I am still here, yet not.
It's been exactly a month, now, that I've been alone. I can't decide whether time has sped or crawled by; some of each, I imagine.
I feel guilty when I feel nothing. I feel guilty when I feel angry. I feel guilty when I forget to feel devastated. I hate happy people. I want to be alone in my misery; I don't want to be by myself.
I want to have fun and forget, for a few minutes, that my life is in ruins; I feel worse when I catch myself having even the faded resemblance of a good time.
I wear something of his every day. I am desperately afraid that I will forget what he looked like, how his voice was.
I am terrified that I am already used to being alone, even when other people surround me.
One of my lovely and wise commenters mentioned Donald Hall's poems about his wife's death. I write haiku in my head constantly now--the effort of compressing inarticulable feelings into a finite number of syllables is not soothing, but it is distracting.
I have never been a poet. I won't be one now.
I miss him. I miss my old self. I want the world to stop since he is not here to share it with me.
I still cry unexpectedly.