I'm Done with Grief; Grief Is Not Done with Me

The Ghosts of Soho by Thomas Hawk

This week I celebrated commemorated my 8th wedding anniversary. I put the dog in the car, drove out of town, played with her in a park, and then treated myself to a great dinner. I felt pretty good, considering. I felt a whole lot better than last year.

While having dinner, I decided that I was going to be done with my grief. Not that I would never be sad again, but that I wouldn't let it be an excuse for holding me back. I would find work again and not feel that I needed to have 24-hour access to my grief. I would not be a widower any more. I would be single. I would stop looking for Wendy and stop asking her to come back.

Last night, I decided to do the art walk in Seattle, like we used to do together. That was okay. Then I went to our favorite restaurant, right around the corner from our first apartment. That was weird, but I got through it. Then I decided to walk up to the old apartment building and look in at the lobby. That's when I became a ghost.

I walked around the whole front of the building, sobbing. I looked in at the parking garage, the hilltop view of SoDo, the park buffering our building from the freeway. I sat there and wept. That vague suicidal feeling returned.

Now it's the morning after. I slept in with frightening dreams. The house is cold, I'm a little shaky, and I'm feeling like I'm back at square ten.