eight days later

It’s been eight days since I was forced to say goodbye to Henry. I don’t feel better. I actually feel worse. It’s amazing how much you can cut life down when life cuts what you care about most away.

This is post 1,001. I used to imagine what 1,000 posts would be. If anyone told me it would have been numb verses poured to dilute the anguish of losing Henry, I probably would have abandoned these parts months ago.

I’m not happy. I can’t make myself happy. I’ve gone through houses and husbands and jobs until the cows come home in these parts. I’ve never lost anything to this caliber and there will be very few times in life that I ever do. Very few do I hold so dear.

Sure, there is an unconditional requirement to bear a particular regard for life. But then there are those you love. Above and beyond any other. That’s what Henry is.

Eventually I’ll sell myself out to the whole “Time heals all wounds” thing. I don’t put any faith behind these words whatsoever, but I like to consider myself a mindless mammal – same as the rest.

I must also mention my poor Peanut in all of this mess. She’s only been in the country for two months. She doesn’t really know where she is. She doesn’t know where her brother is, although she can tell he won’t be back. And she isn’t thrilled staying home alone every day.

It’s not that I’m unaware sooner or later I’ll snap out it. It’s just the requirement to do so is such a startling slap of how shallow life really and truly can get.