Last week marked the five-year anniversary of my husband’s death.
How can that possibly be?
Wasn’t it just yesterday morning he brought me coffee in bed, and yesterday afternoon we argued about dirty dishes in the sink? Wasn’t it last night he gently scratched my head until I fell asleep, and I woke to him snoring beside me?
If you’ve read along with me these past few years, you’ve probably noticed my grief slowly change. I can think of Neil now without my heart feeling like a wet dishrag being squeezed and twisted. I can remember the good times without tears. The rose-colored glasses of memory have slowly returned to clear lenses that show our life together wasn’t perfect. Even so, not a day goes by when I don’t miss him.
What’s my advice to the Colleen of five years ago? Here are my thoughts:
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