I'm starting to get that a lot- from a lot of well-meaning people. It's not that they're grieving with me anymore; it's that they're still grieving. As if it's been such a long, long time, and though life is going on as usual- hey, they still remember Dan died. I understand though- I'd probably write the same thing.
I'm not still grieving. I'm just grieving. It is completely surprising to me that it is mid-August- every day has been an eternity, but the season has completely passed me by without my noticing.
This morning I decided to clean again. I dusted and vacuumed like a mad woman. I saw your brown shoes in the closet and said, "I have a dead man's shoes," aloud. And as I dusted and vacuumed, and lifted couch cushions and threw them on the floor, I spoke to you- the way I would if you could hear me then- about just how much this sucks. I rambled on and on about how you died, and how this is my life now and thanks a lot.
It felt good, but my energy faded pretty quickly. I always said, you could tell how out of control I felt by the amount/thoroughness of my cleaning. But it's not even that now, just a desire to keep Audrey's room and the room she plays in clean for her. My room-our room- hasn't been touched. Surely, there are still hairs from your head and skin cells from your body around.
When I was done, and the vacuum sucked up its cord as it so neatly does, I admired my work, and I felt you were admiring it too- which was weird- because you didn't care about that stuff. But just now you seemed proud, and fatherly.