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I desperately wish I could offer some sort of comfort. I will not insult you by saying I understand. I cannot. I lost my wife, not my son. The degree of grief, I believe, differs little, but it is different.
Indications of my wife are all around me daily: the switch plates she replaced, the photos she hung, the ones she took, cookware, some of my clothes, the list is endless. The reminders are constant and daily.
For me, today is the worst. It is the night of the Harvest Moon. Seventeen years ago, we dressed up for the occasion. I wore a suit. Really. We danced. And I fell in love with her. Today is worse than our anniversary, her birthday or the date of her death. The moon is about to rise, and it will be huge and orange shortly after it clears the horizon—well, really after it clears the big school to the east.
Mind, I'm not trying to compete with you. You have your changing of the seasons. I have my date, tonight.
I am so very sorry. If there was a way, I would take your grief away from you. That might sound kindly to some, but only you and I—and some others here—know how absurd and hollow it is, because it is impossible. Nonetheless, for what it is worth, I wish it.
I hesitate to continue, as I do not want to add to your pain. But when my wife died, part of me did indeed die with her.
I've had heart problems, and at one point Kathryn semi-angrily told me, "If you die, I'm going to kill myself and come after you." Sadly, I lacked the courage to do likewise.
DollyM, I wish you only the best. I apologize if I have said too much. I'm just not doing well this evening. I mean well, but I have long paved the road to hell with good intentions. With any luck, perhaps this will not be yet another brick.
Best, CE
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