(From the LBG: Our hearts got out to Diane an the entire O’Brien family. Wally was a wonderful man who will be sorely missed.)
So I’m kneeling on the bathroom floor trying to remember how to scrub a toilet. I haven’t done this for decades. It was an agreement we’d come to the way so many of our disputes ended: I out-talked him. “There are four of you, one of me,” I pointed out, “and I sit to pee.”
Little boys and even grown men don’t always bother much with aim.
He had no answer for that. And that’s how he got toilet-cleaning duty.
Denial is the first stage of grief; I thought that meant you pretended it didn’t happen. But apparently it can mean numbness. I can’t see my husband’s face, can’t hear his voice. Numb.
(A friend, whose kitchen window looks out over the ocean, has been sending me the sunrise every morning. Here’s Monday, February 6, 2017. Photo by Barb Yatsevitch)