In the first year of widowhood lacking motivation to do anything but cry and feel sorry for myself, somehow I managed to take care of essentials and my critters, just barely.
Plans and organization, always big in my life, failed me. I planned to help my friend, who has a shelter here in Puerto Rico.
Amigos de los Animales does good work, always support them, so I ran a photo day with modest success. For me to focus and plan a fundraiser in the first few months after my husband’s death took more than I had to give some days.
The tape in my head said, “Your husband’s dead. Kiss him good bye and life, as you knew it.” Listen the owner of the fundraiser venue gripe about the rotten lover who left him and was therefore dead to him or the tape. Pull the covers over your head is option number three. Let’s forget about four.
To work for the benefit of anything, when you've just lost the one you love above all, is difficult. That’s just what I had to do to rescue the caring in my core.
First year the darkness grabs you. I've always felt the forces of the universe to be impersonal; shit happens, but looking at the face of darkness taught me that it is personal. When you’re attracted by love and light, the dark sneaks in from the oblique. So out of my mind with grief I almost missed it in the corner, but saw and felt it’s cold.
Twenty months of living without Kirt, I can’t believe it. The thought still stuns; I am at a loss, but no longer lost.
No longer lost seems like a place to begin.