Can't Pretend

My daughter Ann is reading a memoir by a widow. The book is about life after death, her life after his death.

That's all I know, except that I asked Ann if the book was good. I can't replicate the vocal nuances here on the blog, but her "yes" was modified by her voice down to an "okay." She said she didn't want to oversell the book.

Then, out of curiosity, I asked her this question: If you had to describe life after your dad's death in one word, what word would that be? Her answer: Lame.

I said I'd been thinking: Crappy.

So there it is. And all you who think I should not say stuff like that and that I should "move on," which I am doing as I understand "move on" to mean, and who think that if I'm not happy then it is my fault . . . I'm sorry. That's just the way it is. I can't pretend he didn't die, and it's just there--his death--in, over, and through all my life now.

It's not that I try to think about it, about him. No. I don't have to try. It's not that I'm never happy. I am.

It is that I miss him and wish he were here. It is that I watch married couples and envy them. It is that I am lonely without him. And it is that people in my situation have to be allowed to speak and write their real feelings. Not the feelings that others will be comfortable with. The real ones.