I keep expecting things to get better. But I'm still listening for his voice in the night, for his step in the hallway, for his weight in the bed. I'm working on our house and faltering, not because of the work, but because he's not there to criticize or accolade or notice. Because I have to deal with his stuff as well as mine, I get so far and no farther.
I'd love to rant that it's not fair. But life isn't fair. And we know that, knew that. So I can't go that way. I can be thankful for the 36 plus years we had. I can rant about why we didn't do the upkeep on the house the way we should have, even when I had the money. Sigh.
I can rant that my writing is going nowhere and that the two party system in the US is falling apart. (Don't get me started. I have come to the conclusion that the Republic has died and Democracy, as we have practiced it is also on the way out leaving us at the mercy of a Cleptocracy led by corporate and political entities who don't give a damn about anyone but themselves and would happily reduce the rest of the population of the world to the slave status they already see us living in.)
One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. It's the only way. But, man, sometimes it is so difficult.