Happy Freaking Birthday

He would be 61. We would be on vacation somewhere, maybe Mexico or Hawaii, but the last bug trip was to Victoria B.C.. It was a marvelous adventure. Our autumn trips were always so great.

The first year, friends took me up to Crystal Hot Springs as a diversion, and for a burger and shake at Peach City in Brigham. A nice outing. The next year, Matt and I went to Kona to scatter ashes at sea. It was sad, but a solid trip making good memories. This year I originally has Vancouver booked for a solo trip. My biggest goal was a couple meals at Tim Hortons. COVID cancelled that, I couldn’t even get into Canada at this point. I am safer at home, I suppose.

No one has noticed. Maybe they don’t want to make me sad. That’s silly, I’m always sad, you can’t make me extra sad. I didn’t expect anything, but in reality, that stings. He’s being forgotten. Sure, I’m not the only widow, I am not the first nor the last, but that doesn’t diminish my personal experience. It sucks. There’s no way around that. It would suck less in a nice hotel room with good food and new to me TV, maybe a rental movie.

There’s yardwork to do, and house stuff, packages to assemble and label. I am still in bed watching Let’s Make A Deal. They’re all reruns, this week all the Breast Cancer Awareness episodes. I’m a survivor, but he is not. It’s a weird place mentally.

Maybe I’ll go out and throw cats at the neighbor kids. (Ask Reddit …)

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