Tonight is one of those nights where I just want to write. Whether it be a steady stream of consciousness or some haphazardly cobbled together narrative doesn’t matter. It is something I need to do. I yearn for it.

I’ve reached a point where I worry that I use my husband’s death as a way to receive sympathy. Like the people who humble brag in a self deprecating manner. Although this is neither humble nor a brag. I worry that I have begun to use it as a way to justify terrible behavior. Which is something I don’t want to make a habit.

I bring it up more than I feel I should. It’s not like I pop into Starbucks and when they ask for my order I reply “my husband just died and I’d like a black cold brew please.” Sometimes in the lack of conversation I bring it up or when prompted with how I am doing. More often than not I withhold my true feelings because it makes for a less awkward casual exchange. For those that I am familiar with, and know, I feel treat me as if I could crack at any moment. In their defense I might. I surprise even myself. But I haven’t yet. Whatever feelings I have I have buried them deep down to where they only bubble up, like crude oil, when things get tense.

Tonight… I have the image of my husband lying deceased in our bed prominent in my mind. The mental image is as fresh and real as if I was standing in the entry, staring at him resting peacefully. Unlike the times before this has caused me to feel a cut across my chest. In the actual moment this memory occurred I was calm, collected even. I was sad he was gone but… I wasn’t aching. It wasn’t painful. He passed with us around him, in his own bed, on his own terms. If given the optimal choice in passing, I think most would choose this exact scenario. Why now does it hurt?

The further I get from the last time I kissed his forehead causes me more heartache than I think I am prepared for. I miss him more and more as each day passes. Thinking of happier times waxes and wanes from joyful reminiscing to a painful desire for that which will never be again.

A friend of mine, who lost his husband to Covid, told me that almost a year, to the day, it was like a switch went off in his brain and he was no longer sad. The shared experience has been repeated a few times since and I can’t help but feel odd about it happening with me. I understand that I will always miss him, that’s a given. But I don’t want it to be a passing thought, like “oh, I need to buy milk” or “I really liked that jacket I had in junior high.”

I know my husband wouldn’t want me to be sad. He explicitly said he wanted me to live and have fun. It’s just weird without him. I don’t want to do it without him. At the very least, sharing with him what I did. How I feel.

And each day that passes I talk to new people who feel as though, in his absence, that there is place that could be filled by them. And all that does is make me angry. At both them and myself, for allowing it.