Right now, I want to quit.
Quit being here for the kids.
Ya know what?
I'm tired of this shit.
Tired of being alone.
Tired of waiting to feel better.
Tired of catching glimpses of my new sun, only to have those blasted thick clouds move in with the swiftness and destruction of a great white shark.
Tired of functioning.
Tired of talking.
Tired of defending.
Tired of fucking breathing.
I'm tired of missing him in all these new ways.
I'm tired of wondering how good my life will be at some point.
I'm tired of telling people that he died or "Yes, that was my husband" to the umpteenth new 7th grade parent I meet at the school where he worked.
I'm tired of making myself focus on putting my left big toe in front of my right big toe so I can get through a day.
I'm tired of having happy moments that every magician craves...they vanish before your eyes!
I am a tired coward.
A mother (not a widow) once told me she stays alive for her kids. I didn't understand that.
I still don't. I don't stay alive for them.
THEY keep ME ALIVE and that is why tomorrow
I'll still be here.
In the kitchen, making pancakes.
Taking Langston to get his hair cut.
Sunscreening their faces and arms and legs before we go to the beach.
I don't have the courage to deny them me.
Huh, who'd a thought
cowardice was such a good trait.