This Friday will be the second anniversary of his dying. And like it felt two years ago, I cannot imagine the reality of it.
That’s how it felt then—impossible. Unbearable. Unfathomable.
Yet I take my next breath.
How can that be?
To live with sadness—yes, I can do that. But to live with joy?
Adrian’s presence is all too absent from my life.
I feel like I am plodding through deep muck—with no interest in the destination.
My daily activities seem pitiful, arrogant, deranged.
Yet I went into the studio and painted this morning. That’s what I know how to do. And all I can do, I guess, is what I know how to do.
I will practice the piano.
I will make myself a sandwich for lunch.
I will eat the lunch.
One thing everyone in my family is good at is eating our way through disasters. Nothing makes us lose our appetites.
I suppose that eating lunch is a sign that I do choose life. I am not going to throw myself onto my husband’s funeral pyre.
I am in no mood today for the trivial. I don’t want to participate in trivia any more.
But I will, of course. I am human. I will partake of the trivial, the mindlessness, and the banal.
I will do what I have to in order to get through the day.