I didn’t get dumped. I did not get divorced. We didn’t break up. We aren’t taking a trial separation. We didn’t even fight.
Normally, when two people in a sort of quasi-relationship of fifteen years finally part, there are fights that escalate into fireworks, or conversely, the fire slowly dwindles until it silently goes out with a tiny puff of smoke coupled with the realization that you aren’t in love anymore and maybe you had nothing in common in the first place. How did fifteen years go by and you didn’t even notice that? How did you spend fifteen years with someone who maybe wasn’t even right to begin with?
I got no fights. No fireworks. There was no breakup. There was no arguing it. There was no driving by his house. There was no stealthily stalking him. There were no drunken late night text messages trying to regain what we lost. I got none of that.
There was no pleading, bargaining, convincing, winning or stalking. He just disappeared forever with a tiny puff of smoke. Having the love of your life die on you feels like the worst break up imaginable times ten.
The last thing I ever said to him was, “90 degrees in March. Fuck LA.” I’m not even sure he saw that text. He was probably already dead.
When he visited in January, had I known it was the last time we’d circle the subject of our relationship–that it was the last time I’d see those blue eyes–things would have been different.
When he asked me what I wanted from him, I wouldn’t have said, “I don’t know.” I would have said, “I want you, dumbass,”
When he asked, “What’s going on with us?” I would not have said, “Is there an us?” It was hurtful, stupid and cowardly.
When he said, “The next 3 or 4 years are yours. I can’t promise anything after that,” I would have told him that he’s an idiot. I already had everything he had to give.
I didn’t get 3 or 4 years after that. I didn’t even get 3 or 4 months. When he said, “I love you and I always will,” I would have forced him to mean it for more than two months.
I can’t argue or plead with him to take me back. I can’t stalk him or talk shit about him on Facebook. This is as final as it gets.
For fifteen years, other than the occasional slip, I never stopped being a chickenshit. Even at the end, I was a coward. I would only dip my toes when I should have jumped in.
He knew what I couldn’t say. He knew, but I wish I had told him.
This is the name of a post that was in my draft folder. There was nothing here but a title dated long before Male died. Those words might not mean much to you, but another piece chipped off my heart and clattered to the ground when I saw it.
When I was at my worst, he took my face in both hands, forced me to look him in the eye, and he said, “You’re fierce, you’re beautiful, and I love you.” He said, “If you kill yourself, I’ll never forgive you.”
It hurt me to see how I was hurting him, so I got better.
He’s not here now. He’s gone away forever.
I have friends. I have you, but you won’t take my head in your giant paws, stare intently at me with ocean blue eyes, and tell me, “You’re fierce, you’re beautiful, and I love you.”
You won’t put your big, warm hand over my heart and tell me, “It’s right here. You and me. Right here.”
You won’t tell me, “Everything is going to be alright,” and make me feel like just this once, even though it never was before, just maybe, it might actually be alright this time.
You might tell me that, but I won’t believe you. It would be hollow and empty like everything else. I won’t believe you the way I believed him.
I don’t know what to do without the big hand on my heart. I go on living, because it’s easier than the alternative. I get out of bed, because it keeps me from thinking, but it sneaks through all my cracks anyway like a dust storm.
It still hurts so very much, this hole in my heart that he left there 130 days ago. It’ll never close up. Not entirely.
I wake up at 3 am sideways in my bed, displaced by dog and cat. My mouth is throbbing from my latest dental excursion; visit two of four, replete with scraping and drilling and grinding and prodding and lasers in my mouth. Lasers in my mouth that smell of burning. It’s 3 am. I’m wide awake and in pain. I take some over the counter pain killers and it takes another two hours of fitful thrashing before I fall back to sleep.
3 am is a terrible, no good, useless hour when one has a work-a-day life. 3 am is too early to wake up, but too late to go back to sleep. It’s the hour when all of the terrible things you’ve ever done or said settle in for a good long visit. I call those the cringe thoughts and they always appear in the wee hours when I am trying, and failing, to sleep.
Later in the morning, my phone starts buzzing and beeping every three seconds. It’s Facebook Messenger, an application I never use, but I just got a new phone last weekend and forgot to turn it off.
“This message is for anyone who spoke to me directly about being there for the final dissolution of Male’s remains.”
What does that even mean? It takes a minute and more reading the conversation to realize that they’re talking about spreading Male’s ashes. The message is from one of Male’s oldest friends.
I know Male was cremated only a few days after he died. I know that some of his ashes were already spread in Philadelphia, where he grew up half the time. Male was the child of divorced parents who got along so terribly that living on opposite coasts of the United States seemed like the only reasonable solution. He really had two hometowns.
It hadn’t occurred to me that something eventually needed to be done with the rest of them.
Since Male died, all the arrangements have been made without me. Some through Facebook conversations I wasn’t privy to; some at the memorial, where I ran away screaming as soon as I could.
I feel like an afterthought. I wasn’t even added to this Facebook Messenger conversation until another friend said I should be included, so I missed over half the conversation that happened before I got there.
What is this “anyone who spoke to me directly” business? I didn’t give my opinion as to whether I wanted to be there for this spreading of ashes, because I didn’t even know this was a thing that was happening.
“I think you left the memorial by the time Male’s mom mentioned that I would be handling final disposition of his remains. Some of his remains were spread off the coast of Maine, some in Philadelphia and some released in balloons in LA.”
Wait, Maine? What the fuck does Maine have to do with anything? And what’s this about balloons? When the fuck did that happen?
After I left the memorial, they put some of Male’s ashes into balloons and set them loose over Los Angeles. How absolutely hokey. Male would have thought that was the dumbest idea ever. He would have hated that (and the bagpipes at his memorial). I can hear him saying, “Why not get some white doves while you’re at it?”
The more I read of this conversation, the less involved I feel in Male’s life after death, so to speak. I’m starting to get pissed, which is just masking the hurt that I am not involved in any of this except as an afterthought.
His friend continues:
“Male and I had a conversation back in the day about spreading his ashes on the ocean in northern California. If he expressed something different to you more recently, please, say so.”
Male didn’t give two twats about his remains. He believed that once you’re gone, you’re gone. There’s no more of Male in those ashes than there is of him in my little finger. He’s gone.
“I had no idea that any of this happened or was going to happen. I didn’t speak to you directly about ‘being there for the final dissolution of Male’s remains,’ because this is the first I’ve heard of any of it. Speaking of not hearing things, who has his computer? I’ve asked for several things he wrote for months and months now, and I still do not have them.”
That and many other questions went unanswered. I’m pissed. I’m hurt. I’m left out. In keeping with everything else regarding Male’s death, I was only added to the conversation later. His mother never even called me. Apparently, to his mother et al, being someone’s life partner for fifteen years counts for squat compared to people he knew from the time he was a teenager, yet rarely saw. I am the last person he talked to; the person he really talked to. It counts for nothing.
So, now I have to decide whether I want to drive hours and hours to be a part of this ash spreading business. Part of me wants to tell them all to fuck right the hell off. Some small control freak part of me wants to have a little tin of Male’s ashes all to myself, but then I think it would be creepy to keep my dead boyfriend’s ashes in a Folger’s can on my mantelpiece. Then, I remember I don’t even have a mantel. Death’s a bitch.
I don’t have much to celebrate this year besides my new teeth and the fact that I am still somehow stubbornly alive. Today is my birthday, and as I’ve done every year since I could write, I write.
I started this tradition many moons ago, before the internet existed. I could quietly write my thoughts in my journal (alright, diary) and no one would see it. Most people didn’t even know it was my birthday at all. With the exception of my family and the odd human resources employee who would spread the rumor at work, no one would even know.
Had I known then that I would eventually write these birthday hubrises on the internet where literally the entire world could see it, I never would have started this dumbass tradition. Alas, here we are. The introverted misanthrope who generally dislikes birthdays publicly posting about my birthday.
Other than these stupid birthday posts, I don’t go around announcing my birthday. I don’t like the attention and I’m a member of the Bad Birthday Club. There are no membership dues or anything. All you have to do to join is have multiple bad birthdays. Highlights from bad birthdays past include an arrest report, a car accident, a black eye, the death of a pet and more arguments than you can shake a stick at. So, is it any wonder that I like to keep my head down?
This year, for the first time in fifteen, I get to “celebrate” my birthday without Male. I get to mark the anniversary of another year on this crummy planet and he isn’t here. I find that extremely unfair. The grief is particularly acute today and I don’t feel like celebrating. So, fuck birthdays. Instead, I made myself a ridiculous cake:
A lot of you are getting engaged, getting married, having kids, going on vacations, doing coupley type things, enjoying your lives.
I can’t read about any of it.
It’s not personal and I certainly do not begrudge you your happiness. In fact, as much as I’m able, I’m very happy for you. I’m glad someone is happy, because that someone is not me.
Whenever I see a blog post about your happiness, I either skip it or I read until my heart hurts too much to read more, which is usually only a few sentences.
I don’t envy, resent or even mind your happiness; I just can’t be a part of it.
My heart still hurts. A lot. It just doesn’t seem to be getting any easier. The grief pangs are less frequent and piercing, but not any easier.
For the first month or so after Male died, I couldn’t look at his stuff. I couldn’t listen to music that reminded me of him. I tended to avoid anything related to him, even obliquely, which was a lot of things. Things that made me think of him were off limits.
Now, I’m missing all the things I should have gotten from his apartment. Going through my books, I’m pissed that I don’t have his books, his favorite Eagles jersey, his hats, etc. These are belongings I should have and I don’t. I want all of his things and I only have a few. The items I have of his are not especially sentimental. They’re things he purposely left me like his bed, television, and ugly lamp; or they’re unimportant objects he left at my place at random. I have a book on acing tort law.
Right after Male died, I told everyone who asked that there were two things I wanted of his: 1) a story he wrote about the two of us 2) his music collection. It’s been thirteen weeks and I still have neither of those things and I have no idea what happened to any of his belongings. Perhaps it’s for the best that I don’t have more of his stuff. Living in a dead man’s things isn’t all that healthy I suppose.
Still, I want that story. I want his music. I want more of him. I want to roll around in his stuff and wallow and weep, because there hasn’t been much weeping going on. I’ve shut down and my mind is busy building another wall around my heart, supposedly to protect it, but really, to trap us inside. There’s not much I can do about it.
Stuff is just stuff, even if it is, or was, his stuff. An ugly lamp, a PS3, a bed, a Damned shirt. That’s all that’s left of him. That’s all there is and all there ever will be.
Yeah, so I skipped a week. Sue me. My shrinky dink wants me to write every damn day and I can’t even manage every week.
It’s been 8 weeks since the love of my life died. Dead. Gone. Forever. I’ll never get another hug.
Those sentences there are my personal test of my pain threshold. Writing that didn’t make me cry this time, but I did have a mild stab in the chest.
The searing pain of weeks 1-3 have been replaced by a mild soreness in the chest region. I’m still amazed that grief physically hurts. There are physical symptoms to losing your life partner. Who knew? I certainly didn’t until it happened to me.
Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him. My brain still factually reminds me every day that he’s gone. I’ll be brushing my teeth, doing laundry, or worst of all, waking up first thing in the morning, and my brain will chime in with, “He’s gone.” Yeah, thanks, brain, because I almost forgot for a millisecond that the person I love the most in the world is gone forever. Thanks for reminding me.
I am alone. There is no “us;” there is only “me.” In some ways, it’s kind of nice being single with an excuse. I don’t have to hear people nag me about being single. “When are you going to get married?” “Never. He’s dead.” I wonder how long it will take for people to start bothering me about singledom. I figure I’ve got at least a year before anyone tells me I need to “get out there again.”
The reminders are becoming less painful. There are still a few songs that I can’t hear at all and skip the second they come on, but for the most part, I can listen to about 90% of my music again, even music he gave me or is in some way associated with him.
I’m still avoiding Facebook, because fuck Facebook. From what I hear, the posting of pictures, stories, etc., is still going on, and some jackass even posted pictures taken at his memorial. Who does that? A memorial is not a damn party. I just don’t think it’s appropriate to take pictures of people grieving and then post them on Facebook. I don’t even know if I’m in any of them, because I don’t want to see that. I don’t really care.
I’m not numb anymore. I’m something else. I’m not sure what. My shrink called my mental state “brittle,” which is as appropriate a term as any. The dictionary defines brittle this way:
hard but liable to break or shatter easily
That’s about right. Hell, that could describe me in general. And my best friend sent me this:
A friend of mine said that he’s willing to excuse most behavior under three circumstances: giving birth, getting married and during grief. I’m not so sure I agree.
This past weekend was incredibly awful for me. It was the memorial weekend of the love of my life. I’m partly relieved that it’s over and partly sad, because it means it’s over.
Friday night, I went to a pre-memorial family gathering of all our closest friends. When I got home in the wee hours of Saturday, the day of Male’s memorial, I took my dog out for a walk and found an envelope at my door.
It was a save the date announcement for a friend’s wedding. I opened it, saw what it was and threw it on the dining room table. It still sits exactly where I threw it.
Since then, I’ve asked a few people for their opinions on the matter, since clearly, I can’t be objective, but I haven’t asked you yet, so let me lay out the facts as unemotionally as I can.
I live right next door to one of my oldest and best friends, and his girlfriend of some ten years. Half the time, they’re not even in the same time zone. The other half the time, they’re arguing and making up in a sickly sweet manner–repeat to infinity. They’ve broken up a few times and one of them even moved out for about six months.
I am not too fond of her, but I don’t necessarily dislike her either. We just have nothing in common. We never have been and never will be friends. We tolerate each other, or at least I thought we did.
The night she dumped the save the date thing at my door, her fiancé was with me at the family gathering that she didn’t attend. Her house guests, who flew in specifically to attend the memorial, were also with us, so there’s no way that she forgot about the memorial. She knew exactly where I was and why.
She knew my relationship with Male, maybe not all the nit grit, but she certainly knew that we were very close and that when he visited, he stayed with me, because she lives right next door.
Other than being so obsessed with her own wedding that she somehow completely forgot that everyone in her fiancé’s life, especially me, was mourning a very deep loss, I can see no explanation for the timing of the delivery besides intentional hurtfulness.
Had she had dropped it off on Sunday, I would have thought it gauche, but I also might have understood wanting to hand them out in person to people who were here for the memorial, as long as it was after the memorial.
If the wedding was next month and therefore time sensitive, I might have understood, but the wedding isn’t until November–195 days from the day she dropped the save the date. One hundred and ninety-five days.
Had it come in the mail, I might have been able to excuse it with her not thinking through the date that it might be delivered.
But, none of that is true. She intentionally hand-delivered a save the date announcement to my door knowing full well that I wasn’t home and that I would receive it on the very day of the memorial for the love of my life–a man I will never, ever get to marry.
What am I supposed to make of that? What do you think? How would you handle it?
I survived the memorial thanks to Klonopin and friends.
This week was terrible. The closer it came to Saturday, the day of the memorial, the more anxiety and the less control over my mental faculties I had. By Friday, I was a whirling mess. And of course, this week at work happened to be the week that a big wig from corporate headquarters came in to assess the goings on. I made two faux pas with her, and two more in front of her.
I asked the big wig where she was from because she had what I took to be a Philadelphia accent. I was right. I said, “I thought I recognized it. My boyfriend’s from Philly.” With the contraction, she couldn’t determine if I meant was or is, which was probably subconsciously intentional on my part, so she asked, “Is this your current boyfriend or an ex?” “Well, he died a month ago, so… um… both, I guess?” Awkward.
Six or so months ago, my company was bought by a company that also bought the company I worked for before that. I was sold with it. In the new fold, there was my former boss who still thinks he’s my boss, even though he isn’t anymore, and my actual boss, who is former boss’ mom. Not-my-boss and mom have been conspiring since day one to get me gone. They even wrote me up. The Get Rid Of Goldfish Plan got put on hold when Male died.
Thursday, I had a lunch meeting with a vendor, the big wig, not-my-boss and not-my-boss’ mom. I mentioned how the man who sold my company didn’t pay his bills. It turns out that this vendor is friends with him. I also told him about the time I was offered a bribe from another vendor. It turns out that the guy I had lunch with is a distributor for that vendor. This industry is too damn small and I should really learn to keep my mouth shut.
Then, as big wig was readying to go, I said, “Is this your last day here?” She said “Yes, it was great meeting you,” and held out her hand in what I took as a handshake. I guess she meant it as a high five, so in addition to all the other awkward, our final moments together ended something like this:
Strangely, even after all that, I think the big wig likes me anyway, because, while I may not have been this week, I am generally competent and she saw that through all the awkward. Plus, people are generally more tolerant of weird behavior from us arty types.
Friday night, my best friend had a small family gathering at her place. I didn’t want to go, because I don’t want to go to anything these days, particularly not after the awkward week I’ve had. All I want to do is hide in case I cry; I’m not good at crying in front of people. I forced myself to go, because I still wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the memorial, and if I didn’t, that would be the only time I’d get to see everyone who matters. It was also a test for me. If I could make it through the family gathering, I could probably make it through the memorial.
By the time I got to my best friend’s house, I was in the grips of yet another panic attack. She gave me some sort of homeopathic anxiety remedy, which helped, more like than not because of the placebo effect. Just the knowledge that I’ve taken something usually helps.
When I walked in, two friends who now live very far away were already there. More people started filing in, some of whom I haven’t seen in many years. People came from all over the country for this weekend. One even flew in from London and is flying back today.
I didn’t want to drink a lot because drinking leads to emotion and emotion is something I already have enough of. I had all of four beers from 8:30 to 2:30 when I finally left. I made it through the night with many hugs, tears and stories, and felt like I could probably make it to, if not through, the memorial.
Saturday, I woke up with an extreme hangover from five beers. I don’t drink a lot these days and my resistance is, apparently, very low. One of the reasons I don’t drink much anymore is because of hangovers. I hate them and if I have any more than one glass of wine or three beers, I’m hung over.
I slept most of the day until it was time to go to the memorial, which started at 5. At around 3, I started getting panicky, so I took half a Klonopin that Male had given me for when I get twiggy. I found it strangely appropriate that the reason I was able to make it to Male’s memorial is because of Male’s Klonopin.
It was awful. I’m not going to lie. There were many more people at the memorial than there were at the family gathering the night before, some of whom I didn’t want to see at all. I just kept going around talking to people for no more than two minutes. I couldn’t talk to anyone for more than two minutes. The only exception was his mother. I talked to her for about ten minutes.
I told her that I talked to him on Thursday, the day before he died, and she said that I was probably the last person to talk to him then. She had talked to him on Wednesday and our conversations were apparently very similar. We both told him to “go see a doctor.” He didn’t. He died the next day.
I thanked her for letting me visit him in rehab years ago when I was unemployed; she paid for my ticket because I couldn’t afford it and he wanted me to come. I thanked her for letting him come see me in January since she paid for his ticket to LA. I thanked her for never giving up on him. “What else could I do? He was my son.” She thanked me for being there for him. “What else could I do? He was the love of my life.” She cried. I didn’t cry because Klonopin, but I teared up. We hugged. I moved on to talk to the next person for less than two minutes.
I didn’t cry at the memorial, but I cried many times the night before. I cried when I got home. I’m crying now.
I made it through not all, but most of the memorial. When there were no more people I could spend less than two minutes with, when people started to get drunk and emotional, I left. I lasted from 5 to about 7:30, just a half hour shy of making it through the whole thing. I didn’t attend the after event at another friend’s house, but my best friend texted me with updates. She made it until nearly midnight before she had to leave.
In an hour, there is another gathering at a park near my house. I’m going to go and we’ll see how long I last there. After that, I’m done. There will be no more socializing for me this weekend.
I’m exhausted. It’s nearly over. The weekend I’ve been absolutely dreading since I found out that there would be a memorial is done. I went to the memorial. I’m glad I did, if for no other reason than I won’t regret that I didn’t.
His mom told me about a box of his stuff she brought to the memorial. I forgot to look through it before I left. Everyone decided that I should have his Damned shirt, his oldest and most treasured piece of clothing from his first ever punk show when he was thirteen. I don’t know what to do with it, but it’s mine now, along with his ugly lamp. It’s all I have left.
It has been over a month since the love of my life died. This weekend is his memorial. I’m dreading it with every ounce of me.
Out of the blue yesterday, my sister said, “I’m dreading this thing on Saturday.” I snapped, “Oh, yeah, because I’m really looking forward to it.” Fuck you for dreading something that, when it comes down to it, doesn’t matter one way or another to you, but is life-changing for me. It is my life that we’re memorializing. This is the person I was going to spend the rest of it with that we’re talking about here.
I realize that other people have other emotions regarding him, even my sister, but they’re not the same as mine. I did not lose a friend; I lost my best friend. I lost the person I would go to when things like this happen. I lost the love of my life. I loved him over fifteen years through substance abuse and emotional evasion and hospital stays and everything. So, fuck you and your pitiful little dread. And fuck you for telling me about it.
She apologized and I apologized, but…
I don’t want to go to the memorial, because I don’t do well in large groups, even under normal circumstances. Hell for me is “teeming masses.” I find people exhausting. They always want to talk. As long ago as I can remember, I’ve been quite taciturn. I can be downright chatty with those that I know well (particularly if exceptional quantities of coffee or booze are involved), but generally, my first inclination is to listen and not talk.
Part of that is just genetics. My Finnish father and grandfather are and were, respectively, men of few words. I very much take after them, not only in appearance (although I’m a girl), but also in carriage. We’re imposing figures; partly because we’re tall with piercing light eyes, but also because chatty people have no idea what to do with us. We fluster the chatty, because we speak when we have something to say and not just for the sake of having words fall out of our mouths on the regular.
I also have social phobia and don’t talk to strangers much. So, yeah, large groups of people and I don’t mix all that well.
I don’t want to go to the memorial, because there will be people there I haven’t seen in years and years. Some I haven’t seen in a decade or more. All of these people will gather in one place to “celebrate a life” that they had nothing to do with for the last however many years. Ex-girlfriends, friends from high school and former coworkers will all gather in one room to talk about how important a man they hadn’t seen in years was to them.
It just seems so fake to me. If the spontaneous mini-memorial my friend had the day we found out he died is any indication, it will be a one-upsmanship competition to prove who really was his bestest friend in the wide world. He’s gone. What difference does it make who was closest to him?
Incidentally, it was me. I was his closest friend and love of his life. I was the one he called when he was down. I was the one he really came to visit with his trips home. It was me. So, all these people talking about how close they were to him is really insulting me and the relationship we had. Perhaps I shouldn’t take it that way, but I can’t help it.
I was there when he was at his worst. I was the one crying in hospitals and visiting him in rehab. I was the one who helped him get back on his feet when we got clean. I was one of three people who never abandoned him. Everyone outside of those three people can fuck right the hell off. They weren’t there. They don’t know fuckall. They abandoned him, yet they’re all coming to his memorial. Get bent.
I don’t want to go to the memorial, because apparently, I have a lot of anger. This isn’t surprising since anger is my go-to emotion.
My shrink still thinks I’m “shutting down,” whatever the hell that means. She thinks I’m not “experiencing” the loss. I told her that I don’t know what I could possibly do to “experience” it more. My heart hurts every damn day–every moment of every day. Just because I’m getting up and going to work and walking my dog and not crying, that doesn’t mean I’m not “experiencing” it. I’m pretty well steeped in experience and it sucks.
Wish me luck.
Please don’t be offended if I don’t respond to comments on these grief posts. I read your comments, but I can’t always respond. I write this for myself, because it’s all I can do.
I have a little dream. It’s really a rather tiny dream, barely visible to the naked eye. It’s buried deep under the dirt in seed form, but it does exist.
My dream is to have my own business. It’s headquartered in a small office that doubles as a storefront, preferably near a school, so it would get lots of walk in traffic from kids buying shirts. Or, more likely, parents buying shirts for their kids to stop their constant begging for my unicorn shirt.
My office would have lots of natural light, fun colors, and comfortable places to sit. It would be dog-friendly with a little cordoned off area, so that I could take my dog to work every day. I would have an employee to deal with sales so I don’t have to. I could do freelance work from the little office to supplement my unicorn t-shirt empire.
My dream is to see a car driving down the road with a bumper sticker I made or a person walking down the street in my t-shirt.
My Redbubble venture has proven than there is, in fact, a market demand for my arty wares. This month has been my most successful month yet, already crushing my previous-high Christmas sales numbers, and the month is only halfway over.
So, yeah, it’s not a very big dream. It’s not nearly as big as my dream to visit outer space before I die. It’s even maybe achievable. It wouldn’t even take all that much to make it happen; just some money, promotion skills and guts, none of which I currently have.
This dream of mine formed all by itself in the dirt when Male was still alive. It didn’t have to be here in LA. This little office could really be anywhere.
On the way home from work, I would secretly judge all the offices for rent I passed and think to myself, yes, no, that’s a maybe. That space is perfect! I wonder how much it is?
And then, one month ago today, Male died and it put a damper on everything forever. But, even now, the dream is not dead. It’s just hibernating there under the weight of grief in the darkness under all that dirt.
For the first time since Male died, it poked its head out this morning when I accidentally stumbled on an article about small businesses. The little dream is not dead, but it will be a long time before I plan anything again.
I can’t see the little dream without Male, but this morning, I got a glimpse. This glimpse made me sad, but it also made me glad that the little dream is not gone.
Someday, maybe it will break through all the ice and snow and dirt covering it. Maybe someday, I’ll have the guts and the money and the drive. That day is not today.