One day at a time in 2023

… thats become my universal answer whenever anyone asks how I am … one day at a time.

It’s a lie, but it’s easier than saying fucking horrible or awful or I don’t care and if respond with, “good, thanks” then it’s a blatantly obvious lie so … one day at a time is easier.

I’ve become almost neurotic with the crochet. I should have known that would happen.

I have to be working with my hands -at all times- or my head becomes so overwhelmed with grief & emotion that I shut down. I’ve given myself some sort of rugburn on my index finger from the yarn. I put it down now and then, but then I have to find something else to do.

I stripped the cushion covers off the couch the other day and soaked/rinsed/soaked/rinsed them in the bathtub before putting them through the wash and back on the couch.

I think tomorrow maybe I’ll take all the curtains down and wash them, but I usually wait for fall to do that .. except I don’t think I did it this spring like usual so maybe I should.

I can’t believe it’s July already. Half the sumer gone. We had so many plans for this summer, didn’t we? And it’s a beautiful one, too.

I stand at the windows in the living room and pretend to fuss with my plants on the sill in case anyone walks by but … I just keep looking out there. I don’t know for what.

Willing myself to go outside?

Hoping to see you pull into the lot? Maybe you’re just at work still, right? You’ll be home soon.

I vacuum and dust and wash the one or two dishes in the sink.

There’s nothing left to tidy. You should be home soon so we can watch our shows, and then you can play with Hef while I snuggle or stitch until bedtime. Like always. Like it should have been forever.

It’s almost 7pm. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I have a headache, so probably not.

When does widows fog lift? Ever? I guess if it lifts it’ll mean you’re really gone and I’ll be forced to accept it. I never will. How can I?

I miss you.