I’m howling. Literally, I just spent fifteen minutes just howling. This is normal now; I just don’t talk about it, except maybe I should.
I’m damaged, but Velma stuck with me. She understood me. Now she’s gone. I’m alone. Every day, I’m silently in misery; I’m howling, but there’s no one to hear, and even if there was, they’d leave (not that I’m mad about leaving; I’m grateful for every minute my friends and family spends with me).
I’m damaged. I’m alone. But mostly, Velma’s gone. She’s gone. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together, blissfully. We talked about what would happen if one of us died. It was an uncomfortable subject. I said, especially after the stroke, that I wasn’t sure I could make it without her. That distressed her, and she always made me promise that I would at least try.
What reason should I live for? I know that eventually the hurt will ebb. But what should I live for?
I’m trying, Velma.
