Today is not the only day I think of my husband. I write of him today because I think it is quite acceptable to do so.
But I think of him every day. Every day.
Last week, maybe Thursday, I had a hard time. Calling to him, crying sort of, doing that quiet but audible sigh thing. It's like a moan.
For now, I do not know what else to do with how sad I get sometimes, except to write about it and sometimes not to write about it.
Ann's friend and my former student, Cathy, has suffered the sudden death of her father a few months ago and is now suffering what comes after that. She and Ann have summed it up very well. And I quote. It sucks.
Just so you know.
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