What I Really Need.

It's funny that the first thing people want to know is how I'm going to tend to the more practical aspects of my life.  You know, things like cars, mowing the grass, painting the house, and stacking the firewood.  Then the conversation always comes around to ask how I'm going to support myself.  That's just a polite way of asking if I have any money.  Sometimes the money question comes first but always these two queries appear together. In all honesty, neither one of these things occupies much space in my mind right now.  Near the bottom of the priority pile.  I don't want to sound ungrateful or foolish.  I am truly thankful that people are kind enough to be concerned about my family's current situation.  Our future too. The incredible generosity shown to us has been utterly amazing.  But really, it's not the money or the work that worries me.  I have faith that all that peripheral stuff will work out.  I worry about ever feeling safe again.

Am I worried that someone is going to break into our home and hurt the kids or I?  No, not that kind of safety.  Maybe security is a better word.  I feel that there is no one who can take care of us the way that Bill could.  Really, I'm sure that's true. That is a rather unsettling feeling.  I'm a practical gal, so I know that I can (and will) take care of myself and our kids, but, dagburnit,  who will really take care of me?  Who will, how do you say it, "have my back?"  Who will support me and kick my tail into next week when it needs to be kicked?  Unsettling, I tell you.  This is a void that no parent or friend or child can fill.  It is a Bill-sized hole.

Bill was a son, a brother, a grandson, a nephew, an in-law, a father, a friend, an acquaintance, and a co-worker.  I'm sure any of the people who fit into the mentioned categories feel the void, understand the loss.  But I am the only wife.  No one else holds that distinction except me.  Think on that for a few moments.  Only me.  This is the reason words and kindness and solidarity do little to comfort me.  I have lost my stability, my security, in a way no one else has.  Only me.  I still get up in the morning and make my coffee.  Everyone has clean laundry in their drawers and there's food on the table (lasagna, anyone?  or ice-cream?).  I can make this life seem grounded and "normal"--in fact that's what I strive to do for the sake of our kids.  But, in reality, my world is a vacuum, without gravity, cold and lifeless as granite.  I'm trying to remember that granite sparkles in the sun.