Courtesy of S.W.E.

If the first year after his death were to be called "Shock," the second would be "Realization," and the third would be "Reflection."

My own picture show has been playing in my head. I have seen everything from the beginning of our life together to the end; from the sheriff raising his hand to his hat to that first morning I woke up in my new life; from the funeral to now. I have thought I need to let him go, but I have no idea how to do that-- I'm not even sure what that means. It is just a thought, or rather, something else.

I wonder if writing here is doing any good. I've been a writer since before I could spell words, and I lost that for a while. So whatever gets me writing again is good for me. However, the only way I know how to reach back and offer a hand to those behind me, or near me, is to share my experience and my thoughts as honestly as I can. I hope those it will help will grab it, and I hope those it won't will simply pass by. It is the only way I know how to pull something meaningful out of this thing, to define it. The idea of being unable to is too sad to consider, but... I'm sad for a while.

I can feel an ache in my chest. It radiates through my arms. You know what that is?

My amputated hug.

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