She couldn't recover. I'm trying.

Each day, loss announces itself through shameless novelties – the empty end of the couch, a small spoon untouched.  Like a deep bruise, reminders of her jolt me when I bump against them.  I suspect they always will.  The blender whir is no longer a prelude to pureed meals and without the bathing chair the tub seems empty.  There have been subtle changes too, like a slight shift in temperature or the absence of a background hum I’d only vaguely been aware of.
Nostalgia pulls me into yesterday as I watch used-to-be happy home movies. Anxiety pushes me hard into tomorrow too, and I miss would-have-been happy kindergarten registrations.  It feels as if we're living forward and backward at the same time, excavating details from the past while trying to figure out what to do next, while trying to think clearly at all.  I'm paralyzed by simple decisions, confused with easy directions, forgetful of important details.  And I can't stop thinking about every horrible (albeit unlikely) thing that could happen to the boys.  All this with the very solid realization that when I feel like I might collapse from the pressure of one day, it’s not wise to add the heft of tomorrow’s worry. And yet, I do.

 JEB