Day 113
How are you, people ask. I stare dumbly at them, wanting to say, well you know. As if they know that I have been invaded by sadness, as if I should explain why all topics of conversation seem foolish to me now. I think this about people who didn’t know you, didn’t even know I was married before. So grief not only makes you ugly it makes you weirdly self-centered too. The good news is grief *also* makes you not really give a rip.
I’ve always fretted about how much I talk. We were a good pair, you liked to listen and I had a lot to say. Now it’s the opposite. Silence has entered me.
When I do talk, I presume too much, that the listener can see the crater in my chest is still fresh and oozing and will be inclined to cut me slack or give me the benefit of the doubt or at least be nice and not assume the worst. Every time I start thinking I’m doing the socializing thing ok, I say something that registers on the Richter at 7 or higher, cracks appear and steam starts shooting up from the ground.
Today I found a pair of men’s jeans in the passenger seat of the car. I ask my husband and he explains he found them on the street, they have a tag on them still, he’s going to wash them, they are almost his size. It was so much like you I laughed, especially since he hasn’t worn jeans in years. I’ll never forget us out running, you finding a necktie and carrying it home, and then wearing it to work the next week.
Still doesn’t seem like a sign though.
One of the ways we explored our new city was by running. We ran 5ks, 10ks, then a half marathon, then a retinue of marathons - St. Louis, Portland, Houston. Your torn Achilles effectively ended your running career, but you were there to cheer me on when I qualified for, then ran Boston. Congratulations, baby, you toasted me. I am impressed. You said you were going to do it, and you did it. We were standing at an Irish bar on Cole St., one of the many places we loved that year that’s gone now. You told the bartender, she just ran Boston, and he gave us free beers, and told everyone at the bar and they clapped and you tipped him a tenner.
In my last email to you, I reminded you of your sub eighteen minute 5k that you ran the year we bought our first house. You were the fastest one over that finish line too. Out of all of our many miles together, waking up in the dark and standing shivering at a starting line, those were three of the best, no one there that we knew to see you, just me. You were proud, wore the green finisher t-shirt given to the top three of each age group for decades after, even when it shrunk up and showed your belly button and the writing had peeled mostly off the front of the shirt so only you and I knew what it meant and who we once were.