I opened the closet door to bury my nose in my husband’s shirts, but he’s no longer here. Pictures of his beloved face look long ago.
Now, the time I live alone fills my days; my life is the merit of my actions. Perhaps that thought shouldn’t overwhelm as it does.
Goals have always been important to me. Lately, my goals are puny. 1) Enjoy the day. 2) Work out. 3) Travel. 4) Go to jazz festivals.
These are lovely goals for a retiree, but light weight. I always have had a cause or two aside from personal or professional goals. Contributing to the greater good, the rent we pay for our space here, have I paid my dues?
I fight for what I believe in; I’ve been part of many causes. The dog problem on the island has held my attention for ten years, but now I feel apathetic.
Malaise, melancholy smolder my life away. Missing you can’t be allowed to diminish my future. For each one of us, our life is our work of art. If I have ten or twenty years left, what do I want them to say?
Motivated, hard driving described me for decades. People frequently called me an over achiever. I identified with that; it was me. And now zip like my husband’s scent in the house.