Mornings are still the hardest. It's not so much the waking up, but the putting one's feet on the floor. It still hits me. The house is so quiet. Another day without Bob begins.
I used to feel his spirit here. I don't anymore. It's as though he has abandoned me, again.
The mornings now are cool. A crispness in the air. This was always my favorite time of the year.
I am trying. I talk to my shrink every other month, my therapist every other week, they both say it is "too early" and the grieving process is a long one. They both say it takes time, years, to recover from such a loss.
I go out with my widow friends, also some other friends, though sometimes I decline, especially when music and drinking are involved. I find I have no tolerance for a party.
Sometimes I wish it was back in the Victorian days, where a widow wore black for years and everyone understood and treated her with respectful distance.
I still have days where I don't leave the house, keep the shades drawn.
Mornings are for crying. I am surprised when it hits --- and I shouldn't be, because it always hits me in the morning.
This week, I took our wedding bands to a jeweler. I'm having them resized, fitted together, so I can wear them as one ring.
My hands feel naked without them.