His hardhat was in the backseat of my truck. I finally picked it up and put it on the dash. There’s probably twenty years of stickers on that silly thing, outlining every turnaround he worked in that time. He was damn good at what he did. He’d be the first to tell you that he couldn’t have done what he did without his crew. He loved those guys, and they loved him. They were a brotherhood. I wish he could have been the same man at home.
I don’t think I’m ever going to find what he and I had to begin with. For one thing, we were young and in love. I don’t think you get that at my age. Plus, the man was a sexual savant. OMG. Until we stopped having sex five years ago, (when I decided we were separated), we’d never had one bad sexual encounter. Not one. Sex with him was always this amazing adventure. It was wild and freeing and psychologically thrilling. I don’t think we ever made love, though. By the time that became important to me, I didn’t have enough emotion or trust left for such an encounter. It’s strange to be almost fifty and have never made love. I wouldn’t trade it, though. He was amazing. I will give him his due on that.
I feel vacant today. No tears. But I’m sore inside from crying so much. It feels as though things inside of me have been rearranged and hollowed out. I decided that Day 66 is my last day to mourn him. After that, I just won’t. Because there really needs to be some rules laid down about this. People can’t just go off willy nilly, grieving till the cows come home. That can’t be good for anyone. Since there are no real rules, I’m making some. I can’t live on the couch, only eating and sleeping, unless some major thing gets me going. I’d like to feel good again. I don’t think that’s asking too much of myself.