Sometimes it amazes me that almost three years after P's death, I'm still uncovering new bits of loss. Little things; things I hadn't even realized I'd lost until I thought of them.
Take tonight, for example. I was reading my daily blogs, and I saw a comment from someone that began "My husband and I were lying in bed one night and talking about the kids ..." I thought I remember doing that, and then in the next instant, I will never do that again. And it's true. I can talk about G with friends and relatives and strangers on the Internet, but I will never, ever again lie in bed at night and discuss her -- her education, her activities, her friends, her future -- with her father, the only other person in the world who cares about her the way I do. It took my breath away to think about it.
This whole business of widowhood is like having your house robbed. When it first happens, you come home and see right away that there are empty spaces and useless, dangling wires where the television and stereo and computer used to be, and you flip out and call the police and there's a huge fuss. But then later, over weeks and months and years, you slowly realize that a lot more is missing than you saw at first glance. You go to put on that special necklace, the one you loved even though it only had sentimental value, and you search and search for it before realizing that they must have gotten that too. You need to hang up a picture and the toolbox is nowhere to be found. You go to make a smoothie one morning, and oh fuck, they even took the blender? Surely they wouldn't have taken something like that, would they?
Only they did. They took it all, big and small, important and insignificant.
Everything is gone.