I get tired of being a widow. I get sick of talking about it. I get annoyed with writing about it. I am over thinking about it. But still it sticks. Stuck in the groove. Firmly planted on repeat.
I'd love a new reality. To have something new to think about. A new conversation that didn't ultimately, and at times embarassingly, come around to the fact that my husband is dead. I want to be over it. I am sick of it. I don't want to think about it, breathe it, speak it or feel it. It's old.