I reached into the cupboard and pulled out four dishes today. It took me a minute to realize the mistake. It took me two hours to compose myself. The kids didn’t ask what was wrong. They gave me space. I hate to say it, but they have become used to the sudden episodes of weeping.

What has it been now? Three weeks? Four? I’ve lost track. I can still smell her hair. Feel the lump in the shape of her body on her side of the bed. I can’t bring myself to take her skirts and springtime sweaters out of our closet.

Pastor told me that it would take time. I don’t want that.

Isn’t there a scientist somewhere that has created a way to download your memories? Then I would need another tech that can make me forget them. When the kids graduate and move out, I can reupload them and suffer in solitude. They deserve a dad who is all the way there. Not a grief stricken zombie floating between what was and what is.

I miss you Monica.