Letter To Peter

Dear Peter,

My first blog went up on Huffington Post this morning. The outpouring of emotion is heartening and heartbreaking at the same time. The sadness hits again with a vengeance and I see you staring at me with those wonderful understanding eyes, so proud of everything I do. But where were you for the edits? Where are your deep, soft hugs of comfort? I miss you so much each second of each day and this post just brings up all the pain.

My grief therapist says I should write to you. So I am writing a letter to you like a kid writes to Santa. The letter will never reach its recipient, but the writing is therapeutic. Maybe you will send me a message from the North Pole or wherever you are that you are OK?

Wherever I go, I see friends and acquaintances. Instead of hugs from them, I get sad, pouty faces, and it makes me nuts. I understand where they are coming from and appreciate that they care. Before you died, I would have done the sad, pouty face thing too. But now, I would just hug someone. I crave the contact of a hug and realize how much I miss being hugged.

I have a wonderful story to tell you about our fantastic grandson. He often talks about his "Duke," the best grandfather ever. I took this seafood lover out to dinner the other night and you would have been so proud of him. He started with a dozen oysters, followed by a bowl of Eastern steamers, and then tackled a lobster roll. I could see he was slowing down on the lobster roll. He said: "I'm doing a WWDD, LaLa." I said, "What's a WWDD?" He said, "It's a 'what would Duke do?'" He then proceeded to down the rest of the lobster in one shot.

The other day both grandkids slept over. I was having a sad moment in the morning lying in bed with our granddaughter and she said, "Come on LaLa, it's time to make some cinnamon rolls." The kids are the joy that keeps me going.

I look at the hundreds of comments on my blog and I see how others feel who have had this kind of loss. I love one comment from a person who said, "Without your former companion, you no longer have a mirror to reflect back to you who you are and what you want in life." That is where I am. I have lost my compass to go on and need you so. I know that I am glad I put this out there in all its raw emotion to let others know that it is OK to talk about grief, but it still hurts so much.

I miss you, my love.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

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