Sundays

I woke up this morning confused. I had been dreaming about houses and people, and wasn't quite sure where I was for a moment. Then I looked for Dennis, like I have every morning and realized I was at home, in our bedroom. Only it isn't our bedroom anymore, it's mine. And it's lonely.

I finally got out of bed and almost immediately started crying. I didn't have the energy to make my coffee. I picked up my phone and my sister had called. So I called her back.

And I cried again. I was distracted for a while while she told me about Ralph's diagnosis of diverticulitis and then I started crying again.

Then my nephew, Hamed, called. Yesterday I had asked if I could come over and watch football with him and his friends - looking for a distraction - some positive energy. But now I couldn't face leaving the house. He tried to talk with me, but I couldn't stop crying.

I had planned on going to a birthday bash for January girlfriends, but I had to cancel that, too. Who needs a birthday party with a crying widow?

I blamed it on the fact that I had picked up Dennis' ashes yesterday. I blamed it on being only a week since Dennis had died.

Finally I streamed a movie from Netflix and found my crying subsiding some. When the movie was finished, I started a new one, but there had just been a few too many minutes of being inside my head, and I started crying, hard once again.

Suddenly it occurred to me that it was Sunday. Sunday was the one day that Dennis and I were always alone, together. Oh, for a while last year we had my mom on Sundays, but for most of the 10 years that we were together, we were alone on Sundays, together.

And today I am alone on Sunday with just me (and kitty).

Ann