Strong words

"Of the widow's countless death duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband's death the widow should think 'I kept myself alive.'"

Goodness.

Those are Joyce Carol Oates' words. I'm reading her memoir A Widow's Story.

I'm a bit fascinated by this topic. And I'll admit, this is research.

I don't think it's rude or insensitive to believe I'm going to face this situation. Women live longer than men in general, and Kevin is eight years older than me.

I can do the math.

It's holy crap frightening for me to think about.

About a hundred times I day, I see, hear, read or think about something that I want to tell Kevin about.

I can't imagine having that feeling over and over again and then realizing over and over again he isn't here to tell.

So I want to know more. How do people get to the place where they give a shit again? Where they care about clean clothes, gas in the car, food in the fridge?

I don't know how I would get there. Just thinking and writing about this now makes tears roll down my cheeks.

So I'm reading.

And then maybe I'll be wrong. Maybe Kevin is made from hearty enough stock to keep up with until the end.

I hope I am very pleasantly surprised.