Widow Twenty-Two Months

Twenty-two months ago on a Sunday, my husband died.

Missing him is my biggest pastime; doing things to attend the here and now is my second biggest pastime.

Bitter, mean old ladies, all of whom widows, I now understand you. 

When you've lost the best in your life, self-pity toxicity burdens your behavior. God, I don’t want to be one of those.

Thanks to all my friends and acquaintances, who told me how lucky I was in my hour of loss. I never before realized how deprived and miserable you were. Yes, I've been blessed.

Now, that that’s over, picking up the facets left in my life, I've taken inventory of what remains. Just don’t give a shit is clear winner. On the positive is my love for animals, especially dogs. My days are blessed with nature’s beauty. God did good work in this valley.

Other than sorely missing my man and being bored, lonely; I have no complaints. Not giving a shit makes it easier, but that’s so out of character for me. It feels uncomfortable. Sometimes I scare myself.

The people who were closest to me in this life: Kirt, Darlene, and Aunt Margaret left me here. Alone. 

Tell me what the lesson is! I hate this guessing.

This is it, Act III, so how does it go? Anybody out there know?