New Orleans, alone, but New
Orleans, magic city where voodoo lives under live oak trees will be my home in
seven weeks for three months, no three
months in the states since I hope to attend writers’ conferences in St. Louis
and Florida, as well as the Tennessee Williams in March. Traveling alone
without Kirt or even my dogs, oh my, I don’t relish either, but I’ve done it before
making friends easily, most people are sweet and have a story to tell; I’ll be
fine.
Kirt and I travelled the states
showing dogs in a forty foot bus, well, not as much of the states as we wanted,
but from Illinois as far south as Mississippi across the road from the Gulf of
Mexico, where at night we sat on a pier a hundred feet out in the water with
six Bullmastiffs, enjoying the colorful casino lights on a foggy night.
As the pain lessens, I’m beginning
to enjoy a memory without balling my eyes out. Emotional pain tires you out
like crazy. Being happy seems a chore. I could sit on my porch enjoying the beauty
until I die, with my honey, but alone, no, I want to go to see to do. With the New
Year my resolution is to resonate with passion for the adventure my life has
always been, in honor of my beloved, he’s here; I feel him now.
The road to acceptance is a rocky
trek through the valley of the shadow of death. I am thankful for Daily
Strength Widow Support Group on line. Sharing the experience ameliorated it,
when nothing else made it better.
My life feels like a truce after a
long battle, too much devastation to be happy, but glad the torture’s over. So
three months of the charms of the south will set well with me. No doubt
there’ll be more crying, but I want to find a path for an interesting,
productive life. Statistically the surviving spouse of long term couples dies
in a year, so I’m going to make it a good one.
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