It’s much more than strange, but, that’s where I’m going with it.

 I don’t want to focus on my sadness. I don’t want to focus on the things that make me happy. 

I want to talk about how STRANGE it really is. 

I talk freely about Mitch, and I refer to him, still, as “My husband, Mitch.” I feel like it sometimes makes people uncomfortable when I say it. Really, though. When is it appropriate to refer to Mitch as “my late husband, Mitch”? That feels strange on my tongue. It isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right. 

When I look at old photos, there is a sharp stab of weirdness, mixed with pain, but again, we are focusing on the weird. I look at these photos, and I think “he looks so normal. There’s no way he has died.” 

I see videos, and remember everything that happened before and after, and there is an overwhelming sense of strangeness. 

When I sit with my kiddo, and we pick a show or a movie that I KNOW Mitch would say “hell no” to, it’s weird. 

When I wear a crop top, or post a photo in my sports bra and running shorts (an outfit I have worn on the street, while running), it’s weird. 

If I catch my myself being flirty with a man, it’s strange. 

Anytime the thought comes to mind, that Mitch has passed away, and he is no longer with us in the physical form, there is a powerful sense of weirdness. 

Not normal. Strange. 

I don’t think this will ever feel normal. 

I never really realized how strange it would truly feel to be a widow.  I never really thought about it, until a coworker lost her husband a year and a half ago. 

There are times of pain. There are times of happiness. But, all of those times, happy or sad, are coated with a thick layer of weird. 

I guess, this is my new normal. 

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