I've had two glasses of wine.
I am a lightweight.
I've been sitting on the front stoop, drinking those two glasses and reading my blog...from the beginning, in 2006.
I am amazed.
I am scared.
I am awed at the innocence I had back then.
I am awed at this life experience.
I am waiting for a male friend from high school to rescue me.
Only there is no rescuing.
I walk this path alone.
And I find fear and desperation and loss of hope
And faith and comfort and love.
And it fucking terrifying.
I had such a great day today.
I was treated to a massage and lunch.
I got to reconnect with a woman who is me, only a different version.
It was a gift and now I am crying about it.
I cry for the beauty of the adventure in self-discovery Art's death has granted me.
I cry because in so many ways I didn't want it this way.
I cry because I miss that masculine energy in this home.
I cry becuase of my courage that is not really courage but my back up against a wall.
I cry because he is not here to edit my work and keep me from embarrassing mispellings.
I cry for the deep gratitude that is beyond expression for the so many, many people who have touched our lives and made it easier.
I cry for $20 gas card that came in the mail this week from an anonoumys person.
I cry because I am lonely.
I cry becuase in 6 days it will be three months since Art died.
I cry because I am drunk.
This is what the early stages of widowhood look like. Full of discoveries, love and joy and filled with dread and doubt and fear, all of it enough to fill Mt. Everest.
Good, powerful moments followed by broken pieces on the floor.