I've recently noticed that I am now keeping track of events in my life based on whether they happened before Art got sick or after he died. I don't know if my friends have noticed. I suspect they probably have. I hope they aren't finding it too morbid. Actually, I don't think it's unusual for people to use traumatic events as sign posts, of sorts, in their lives. Most people in my generation can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated; and today many Americans point to September 11, 2001 as the day life in America changed forever.
Lately, I've also been thinking about what is going to be different about my life now that I've officially passed the first anniversary of Art's death. I haven't figured it out yet. However, it has occurred to me that during this first year without Art I have been living my life, at least subconsciously, as if this were just a temporary situation—as if he'd be back and life would return to normal at some unspecified time in the future. It seems like I've just been drifting through each day, trying to keep busy, trying not to spend too much time wallowing in my grief. Obviously, I know Art is not coming back, but something has been keeping me from fully accepting the finality of it all. I can't seem to bring myself to finish getting rid of the rest of his clothes, and his shoes, tools, camera equipment, golf clubs… It's possible that I'm just being lazy, but I suspect it's not that simple.
Last night the Florida sunset was breathtakingly beautiful and I walked out on the lanai to get a better view. While standing there watching the color change from pink to bright red, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and began to cry. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the realization that this isn't temporary.
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