Yesterday was nineteen months of my widowhood. Truly I have to say that while most days end up the same, the things that go on inside really varies. Different levels of understanding. Different avenues where I often feel like go to cross an ally way but can’t, I extend my neck so my head is exposed to anything that may happen. Anything can propel down that lane and knock it right off its body, with the head bouncing and rolling around, eyes flash on and off like an old projector movie.
I wrap myself with the deep dark blanket of what ever this is. I know that the blanket gets thicker and warmer.
While I sleep I now roll all over the bed. horizontal, vertical all angels. I think my subconscious self spends her nights looking for that heat that solid mass that it would roll over to till skin touched and an arm moved and held me tight and secure. I roll around but there is nothing there. The smell of his skin so lovely. He never insulted his body with chemical fragrances, his sweet essence radiated.
Every day it feels another scent brings back a large wave of memories.
At nineteen months I am feeling more and more that these pages will be my only escape. These pages may eventually become private for even the public will tire of my processing.
This week I happened across a line portrait he did of me on a restaurant napkin and nineteen months became important again.