Today is your 65th birthday, myphyllis.
As unhappy a birthday as can possibly be. Yes, I’m thankful we had forty years, but today, just regret, anger, reality.
regret: It is impossible, unspeakable, unbearable. I awaken each morning, realize again, cry, and fume. You were my life. Worse yet, you didn’t know it. The whole thing was so exhausting, painful, and fast that we never grasped the import.
anger: I was watching a stupid movie yesterday. Wisegirls. A big scene is the birthday party for two of the three Wisegirls, both born 7-11, “the very, very, very lucky” July 11 birthday. Without enumerating, because you yourself, selflessly and bravely, never did, your life was beset by a huge number of unfortunate, sometimes horrific contingencies. You were the best person on earth. And the last person on earth to deserve this.
reality: The most common counsel I hear is ‘only time can lessen the grief.’ Wrong. Nothing makes it better. No-one can possibly miss anyone as much as I miss you. Every fucking day. Every night. Nothing makes sense. Certainly not the realization you’re not coming back; the end of sharing with my one and only; the end of any possibility of a moment’s happiness. How can this be? My special girl. Our kids’ mom, our love, our lives gone. Only tears seem real.
I love you to the sky, mybeauty.
