I find it amazing that it’s the little things that will suddenly turn off my auto pilot and force me to remember. Force me to take control of the jet in the middle of extreme turbulence.  The little things are the ones that force me to live the pain, wondering if this is just what my life will be like going forward.

Practical. One of the many adjectives used to describe me.  I love it when form and function make beautiful babies, but ultimately things exist to serve a purpose and there is no emotional attachment. Or there didn’t used to be.  It was one of the few things Dan and I squabbled about…his need to keep things to help remember those he loved, and my need to get rid of clutter.  Imagine my shock when the simple and practical act of throwing his toothbrush out dropped me to my knees, sobbing on the bathroom floor.  And it kept happening!  The disposal of his razor, his house slippers, and his ridiculous collection of articles and magazines celebrating an old Boise State football victory all became chapters in my new  crazy pain chronicles.  

Today it was breakfast.  For the first time in months I made breakfast.  It was his favorite.  He loved making breakfast.  I enjoyed waking up in time to eat it.  He love it so much he talked about opening a breakfast restaurant when he retired so he could cook and  hang out with people in the mornings and then go golf all afternoon.  Yep…ham and eggs have me curled in the fetal position cursing breakfast memories.

Even when he didn’t feel like eating he still enjoyed cooking breakfast.

Because of the little things it’s easier to avoid doing things that remind me of him altogether.  My grief counselor says that never doing anything we loved or did together makes him disappear.  I’m told I’ll find new things to explore and adventure, but that Dan wil always be part of the old me and future me needs to honor that, even thought it hurts like a mother.  I dunno…I can’t even bring myself to watch Boise football this season. All I know is you don’t need salt when you’re crying in the skillet.