Today was a day I wanted to ramble the roads. I decided to drive Greg’s truck because it was a beautiful day. I headed for Somerset, taking my time, driving under the speed limit, admiring God’s handiwork in the trees donning their fall colors.
The drive was pleasant, the onion rings at Reno’s done nicely, I did some writing, and overall was having a good day.
As I was leaving, a gentleman driving a Ford truck stopped and asked me what year Greg’s truck is. I told him, and he was even more interested in the truck when I told him that, yes, it is a stick. I believe he would’ve taken the truck with him right then as he told me several times that the trailer he was pulling would hold the truck; it would’ve.
Then he asked the question. The question for which I have only one answer: A time machine so that I can spend another forty-two years with Greg. Forty-two years that went past much too quickly.
The past two weeks have been mostly leveled-out for me. I’ve had a few days with tears frequently throughout the day, but the tears were more from an overall sadness than grief. The tears this afternoon are those of the bone-deep grief that will leave me emotionally exhausted.
I know grief isn’t ever going away. I know I will shed more tears in the years to come. I did not expect that anything, good or bad, could so quickly plunge me into the depths of grief at any moment, no matter what is going on nor how good my mood.
Going from a day running pleasantly, with thoughts of Greg always with me, to feeling grief so strongly is jarring. It keeps my emotions off-balance, making me wonder if anything is worth the effort, if the future worth thinking about.
I don’t know the answer. If there is one. Perhaps someday I will find a semblance of an answer.
I must be strong until then.
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