More than seven months after P's death, I still have not got used to the little reminders of him that crop up from time to time. I catch a glimpse of his handwriting on a label, or stumble across a photo I'd forgotten, or find a note tucked into a book, and it's like a blow that makes me lose the thread of whatever I'm doing or thinking or saying. It's strange to think that one day I'll be dead too, and someone, most likely G, will have custody of the bits and pieces I've left behind. I can't imagine a fifty- or sixty-year-old G waxing nostalgic over my grocery lists and half-used tubes of arthritis cream, but she probably will.
It just doesn't seem real, even after all those months. None of it does. I look at pictures from a year or two years ago and think "That's my home, that's my family, that's where I belong." This life, this place, feels like a sham, false and hollow. I keep getting up and going to work and doing laundry and sweeping the floor because I have to, but it's like being a character in someone else's play. And I can't shake the feeling that sooner or later, if I go through the motions long enough, the play will come to an end, and I'll be released to go back to my own life. I wish I could make myself believe that this life is as real as the old one was, but I can't. I just can't.