Barely.

Some moments it feels like I'm almost drowning.  Or suffocating.  Or nearly paralyzed.  Almost unable to pick up my feet and take the step to move on to the next thing.  Sometimes it feels like I cannot go forward.  My whole self feels made of stone or concrete, heavy and cumbersome.  My eyes don't focus.  In fact, none of my senses seem to work.  I see nothing around me.  I can't hear the subtle noises of spring outside my window. The scent of staleness permeates the rooms of my house.  My fingertips feel nothing but stillness and cold.  I sit and time and the world moves by me and I have no recollection of any of it.  I'm alive, living, but barely.

I cleaned up our room today.  Swept the dust (good grief there was a lot of dust!) from under the bed and did a general tidying up.  I found one of Bill's t-shirts underneath our bed, probably one that he had thrown on the ground after he had climbed into bed one night.  It's just been laying there.  I organized the collection of books he kept on his bedside table.  Bibles (of course), the FireFox books, some Hemingway, a few non-fiction history books. I read a few notes he had sent me from 1988.  I took out the nightgown that he bought me for Christmas last year.  Took it out of my dresser drawer and tucked it away where I wouldn't see it.  I couldn't even look at our closet.  Not yet.

How is it that he won't be back?  Didn't he just run down to the shop to fill the trailer with wood for the stove?  Wasn't he just out feeding the cows?  Maybe he just ran to the store to buy some soda to have with dinner?  Won't he walk through the door?  All day long I find myself thinking of things I need to talk to him about.  Things I need to remind him to do.  And then I remember.

I only set 5 places at the table now.  Just 5.