I’m starting to get that a lot- from a lot of well-meaning people.  It’s not that they’re grieving with me anymore; it’s that they’re still grieving.  As if it’s been such a long, long time, and though life is going on as usual- hey, they still remember Dan died.  I understand though- I’d probably write the same thing.

I’m not still grieving.  I’m just grieving.  It is completely surprising to me that it is mid-August- every day has been an eternity, but the season has completely passed me by without my noticing.

This morning I decided to clean again.  I dusted and vacuumed like a mad woman.  I saw your brown shoes in the closet and said, “I have a dead man’s shoes,” aloud.  And as I dusted and vacuumed, and lifted couch cushions and threw them on the floor, I spoke to you- the way I would if you could hear me then- about just how much this sucks.  I rambled on and on about how you died, and how this is my life now and thanks a lot.

It felt good, but my energy faded pretty quickly.  I always said, you could tell how out of control I felt by the amount/thoroughness of my cleaning.  But it’s not even that now, just a desire to keep Audrey’s room and the room she plays in clean for her.  My room-our room- hasn’t been touched.  Surely, there are still hairs from your head and skin cells from your body around.

When I was done, and the vacuum sucked up its cord as it so neatly does, I admired my work, and I felt you were admiring it too- which was weird- because you didn’t care about that stuff.  But just now you seemed proud, and fatherly.