It was March, a week after Art's death. Each breath since it happened felt as though my ribs were breaking my chest, the loss so enormous it was a black hole crushing me alive. He saw my sad eyes, grabbed my wrist and pulled me back when I tried to walk away. "What's wrong?" He asked. "Art's dead." The words hung sucking away the air between us. Every part of me wished to be swallowed by the earth. Dying could not be as terrible as this. "Let me help," it wasn't a question. It was a demand. "I've interned with grief counseling." We made plans. I pasted on a smile and make-up and went to pick him up. A glimmer of excitement for the ounce of relief he offered from the pain ripping me apart, was the first touch of anything but torment I'd felt since Laura gave me the news. He got in my truck with a bad mood that was closer to a hurricane than a storm cloud. I tried to compensate. I wanted so desperately for one pe...
Do your best, take it day by day.