It is 10:09pm on the night I buried my husband.
Funerals are so fucking ugly. This one was as ‘nice’ as a funeral can be, but funerals are atill ugly things, tight and hot and they take your breath away.
I remember attending a funeral, with Tony, for a friends son, when our own child was only a few months old. Weeping, my breasts overflowing with milk, weeping too, wanting to be back at my baby’s side.
Then, I had my husband by my side.
And I couldn’t imagine this kind of pain.
It’s not a matter of I ‘can’ do it. People keep saying that, you’can’ do this. It’s not like I have a fucking choice. I know I can do this.
I am fucking already doing this. I’m in the middle of it right now.
I’m 29, and I buried my husband today.
What the fuck, God? What the fuck is this?