I don't know how widows and widowers do it. How do they survive the first day? Hell, how do they survive the first hour? It feels like he's everywhere in this house - every time I go to do something, I get reminded that there should be a little furry tyrant dictating exactly how that thing should be done. Oh, right - I don't have to worry about leaving the bedroom door slightly open so that he can guard the house in the middle of the night anymore. I can go ahead and eat that last bite of sandwich - I don't need to appease the walking stomach. I can go to the bathroom now, secure in the knowledge that my own little Norman Bates won't be breathing his hot breath under the door, trying to lure me out of my sanctuary. I don't have to make sure there is a clear path across the couch to my chair... hell, I don't have to deploy his favorite blanket across my lap the minute I sit down. I'm never again going to be ruled by his loving demands...
God, I've got to stop crying! I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now. We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow. 13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime. Not nearly long enough. Never long enough.
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