Alone.

Well, duh, that shouldn't surprise anyone.  But it occurred to me this week that I haven't really been alone in 28 years.  To quantify it for you, I have spent over half my life with one single person as my best friend. My closest companion.  My other half.   No wonder I feel alone.

The phone calls and visits have nearly stopped.  The mail is now sporadic.  The lasagna offerings have slowed as well, but for that, I am truly thankful. (there is only so much lasagna a person can consume within a season) Please don't think I'm crying for attention because I'm not.  I'm simply stating my observations on the progression of this grief thing and how it seems to follow a linear path most of the time. In some ways I guess I'm glad that my life is not being scrutinized on a daily basis.  No one is watching so closely now for my tears to start falling.  No one is judging the correctness (or incorrectness) of my display of sorrow.  I don't feel like anyone is waiting for me to have some sort of breakdown.  Heck, maybe people are a wee bit bored with it all.  

But I'm awfully lonely.

No person can fill this lonely place.  It's not even a place really.  It's more like a hole, in my heart, in the shape of Bill.

Truly, I'm seldom by myself.  There's always Sarah by my side.  Or another punk.  Maybe a spectator at a baseball game or an acquaintance at a restaurant.  I can't even take a shower these days without an audience.  But it's not the same.

I'm alone because no one can be as interested in what I have to say than Bill was.  No one can worry about me like Bill did.  No one can know just what to say to make me smile like Bill could.  No one can keep me company like him.  I always trusted him--completely.  He was my greatest advocate.  He had my back.

Now, my back couldn't be more exposed.

Maybe that's what loneliness is:  complete exposure to the world without someone to shield and protect  you.  No one to trust.