Last Thursday morning, my wife’s favorite reading chair sat empty for the hundredth day. Her teacup still collecting dust on the windowsill. That’s when I finally admitted I wasn’t “coping fine” like I kept telling neighbors. Grabbed an old legal pad and scribbled “HELP” so hard the pen tore through three sheets.
Facing The Garbage Fire Inside
First thing I did? Stopped pretending. Walked straight to Marty’s Diner Wednesday breakfast club. When Betty asked her usual “How’s tricks Jim?”, I slammed my coffee cup down and croaked “Dorothy’s gone and my insides feel like rotten meat.” Dead silence. Then Marty slid a fresh pie toward me saying “Knew you were fulla crap for weeks.” Just saying it raw like that untwisted something in my ribs.
Letting The Volcano Erupt
Next afternoon, I locked myself in the garage. Dug out her gardening gloves from the workbench. Put those worn leather fingers against my face. Then I screamed. Like a damn wounded animal. Smashed three empty clay pots against the concrete wall. Snot and tears mixing with terracotta dust on my overalls. Felt stupid as hell. Also slept through the whole night for the first time since the funeral.
Dragging My Old Bones Into The Light
Made a deal with myself next sunrise: Do one normal thing daily. Didn’t matter how stupid small. Day one: put pants on before noon. Day three: watered Dorothy’s spider plants. Day seven: walked to the mailbox instead of driving. Nearly got flattened by Debbie’s minivan backing out, but hearing her yell “watch it grandpa!” made me chuckle for once.
Building New Bridges On Old Roads
Started leaving the porch light on Friday evenings. When the bridge club ladies clustered on my steps gossiping, I brought out the cheap sherry. Listened to Carol’s hip replacement horror stories. Didn’t talk much. Just nodded sipping lukewarm booze watching moths circle the bulb. Realized their laughter didn’t stab me like before.
Crafting Memory Anchors That Didn’t Drown Me
Every Sunday twilight, I’d light one of her vanilla candles at the back fence. Our secret spot where we’d share ice creams after the kids slept. Started talking to the empty lawn chair. First time just sobbed through “remember that raccoon stealing your begonias?” Last week actually giggled recounting how our Lab peed on the meter reader.
Turning Broken Pieces Into Railings For Others
This Tuesday saw Hank from church crying alone on park bench. Sat down and grunted “Lost my wife too.” Didn’t pat his shoulder. Didn’t say stupid crap about angels. Just sat there cracking walnuts with a brick till he stopped shaking. Gave him my last Kleenex. For a second I didn’t feel broken – just dented. Like maybe I could be someone else’s half-rusted crutch.
Still wake up some nights reaching for her cold pillow. Still accidentally buy two bananas at the store. But this morning I saw my notebook from hell week. That ugly “HELP” page is now covered in coffee rings and grocery lists. Somehow that feels like a goddamn victory.
