Today is eleven months without my husband.
After today, I have no more months remaining as a barrier between myself and the dreaded “one year” mark.
I will no longer be able to say to myself that it’s not even been a year yet. I will no longer be in the “infancy” of grief.
I will be considered far enough along in my loss to be a veteran. I will have people start to question why I haven’t been able to do this or that yet… after all, it’s been a year.
The world will expect me to pack up all of my sadness in a tiny, little box. To be stored on the shelf of my life indefinitely.
And all I can think is that I cannot do this.
I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know how I’ve done it this long.
Every single day so far this…
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