I’m happy. Ridiculously happy. And I feel like crying.
I said to the Sexy Chef when we were shopping for groceries… “I don’t like always being the sad one you know.”
It’s exhausting. I’m sad. I’m happy. Every damn thing is tinged with sadness. Everything.
At this moment, I want to take my Sexy Chef to bed. I want to rock his world. And I want to bawl. I feel broken and brittle and like I’m going to fall apart at the slightest thing.
I don’t like feeling like this. The joys of widowhood are that I am forever fighting with the sadness. I LOVE my sexy chef. He brings such joy to my life. He’s kind and considerate and loves me for exactly who I am. I want to revel in that. I want to lose myself in him.
Fuck widowhood. Fuck having to forever have that golden thread of grief running through every damn thing I do.
I want to feel joy with the blissful ignorance of someone who hasn’t known loss.
I want to lose myself in a moment without the knowledge that life can change in just one moment.
And in the kitchen, he pulls me around, makes me look him in the eye and says to me… “You’re ok.”
And for one second, I can, I do, lose myself in the moment and forget that it might change when I blink.
For one second… I am lost in the love of a man who loves me for me. The good, the bad, and the broken.