Today’s the day I will muster my courage and empty my husband’s dresser.
As I approach the much dreaded two-year mark of his passing, I know I have made great progress “getting on with my life” as it were. But ridding my bedroom of his presence has not been a part of that yet. Continue reading “Empty drawers”
Who among you likes to take down and put away holiday decorations? I didn’t think so.
I had thought the second Christmas of widowhood would be easier, but I was dead wrong. Continue reading “Dead batteries”
According to Wicca philosophy, “the power of the moon cannot be overstated.”
Now, before you think I’m getting all “woo-woo,” I wanted to lead with that thought as it relates to a recent excursion I had with some friends when we attended a Moon Group led by a Wiccan High Priestess.
When I turned 50, I told my husband I wanted to commemorate hitting the half century mark by either getting a tattoo or a motorcycle.
One study reveals that almost two-thirds of people who resolve to get healthy and fit in the new year give it up.
I’m not surprised by that at all. Following the excesses of the holidays, there is a certain “buyer’s remorse” over all of the bacchanal behavior we gave no thought to while immersed in the season of oversharing, overeating and overspending.
We all seem to remark more and more that there are no longer set seasons in the year.
In New England, winter can physically start in October or late December. We may get a few months of spring-like weather, or it could skip right over into the dog days of summer. Continue reading “Set seasons”
In the South, you don’t go grocery shopping; you go “tradin’.”
And those four-wheeled caged contraptions you push up and down the aisles to transport your goods out to the car are not shopping carts, they’re called “buggies.”
I smell smoke. All the time.
At first, I thought maybe one of the folks who live in the house next door were sneaking outside for an illicit butt, and the smell had wafted over to my house, invading my nostrils.
I was standing in front of the refrigerator holding a jar of salsa that I am sure, had been purchased sometime during the Eisenhower administration.
(Ok, so they didn’t have salsa back then.)
I am well into my second year since my husband’s passing, and alternate between thinking it’s getting better with days of blinding, debilitating despair.
It’s like that famous drawing – you look one way and see a fresh young maiden, tilt your gaze ever so slightly, a crone. Continue reading “Maiden vs Crone”
Grief is an annoying houseguest who won't leave 