I can only read about death.
I can only think about life and death and love.
I can only live in the heart of this pain.
I haven't been able to watch TV since you died.
I've tried a few times but there is nothing that doesn't freak me out.
Even Neighbours is too distressing for me now -
people keep falling in love or breaking up or being reunited
or getting sick or living or having accidents or getting married or dying.
Fictionalised, it's all too much for some reason.
I want to escape but instead I find more comfort from writing and reading,
even though it means diving headlong into heartache.
Turns out Morrie would approve:
By throwing yourself into these emotions,
by allowing yourself to dive in, all the way,
over your head even,
you experience them fully and completely.
You know what pain is,
you know what love is,
you know what grief is.
And then, maybe, one day,
no, it's too soon
to even think about
I watched a bit of Anne of Green Gables with Edie,
tears spilling from my eyes.
My Gilbert Blythe is dead.
My happy ending is gone.
Nothing is safe.
Our days were Saturdays and Tuesdays.
Saturdays and Tuesdays with Blacksmith Paul.
It's not as catchy.
I need to work on a title
for whatever this is.
Every day we had was precious.
'One day,' you said. 'We're going to have a bad day.'
But we never did.
On the beach at Filey. A very happy day