. . . but it does get a little more bearable somehow. We go on with the routine, the normalness of the everyday, but underlying is the great emptiness that remains, the sadness, that is our loss of this precious man. Tears flow less frequently, but I still find myself caught unawares by the simplest of things that make it seem like just yesterday. The unbearable pain subsides, and just leaves this dull ache where my heart used to be. I don’t have much to say to anyone, it’s hard to act normal when nothing is like it should be. I try to scrap, but it’s hard to find the right words - I have managed a few projects that weren’t so personal and didn’t need journalling. And sometimes I do manage to journal, although part of me doesn’t want to remember this hurt, it helps somehow to say these words.
We sold your boat today, and I was quite unprepared for the depth of distress this caused me. You loved this boat, and the joy of sailing it represented, even though we hadn’t taken it out since Kate was born. You had talked about getting it fixed up to sell, but deep down you didn’t really want to let it go, and so it continued to sit in the shed. We cleaned it up in January, and Phil from the Yacht Club has been trying to sell it for months, so his call to say he had someone interested in it was somewhat unexpected, and caught me a litte off-guard. And coming so close to the anniversary of your death, it came at a time I was emotionally fragile anyway. In a way, I feel that I’ve betrayed you somehow, by selling it. But I know that isn’t so. The practical part of me is glad it will go to someone who who will sail it, and enjoy it as you did, rather than it slowly decaying in the shed. It just hurt to say goodbye to this part of you, this part of your youth that I wasn’t a part of, but which meant so much to you, and was a part of who you were.
Thank you to my friends who still come by here, I truly appreciate your love and care.