Good Mourning, Widows.
Today I sit outside my townhouse, Izzy at my feet, admiring a garden I planted all by myself.
I remember another time, another garden, the one I watched Ed plant, Izzy by his side, me snapping a photo.
There. I said it.
Seems ever since Edward Louis Sclier died, I live in a perpetual state of fright. But, I just keep on setting one foot in front of the other, taking one baby step forward, living my new life, one day at a time.
My muscles ache. The tops of my feet are scraped and scored. The next time I paint a room in my house, by myself, I plan to wear shoes.
The den is done.
After dragging, carting, toting every stick of furniture out of that room and into the garage, priming and painting the walls Decorator White, 90% of the work is complete.
Of course, there are the built-in bookshelves I must give a second coat, and then there's a window sill which requires sanding before I can paint that.
Let's not forget the facia, or whatever that thingy mounted to the top of the window is called that needs removing before I can paint that. Ed mounted that window thingy when we first moved in. He installed our new vertical blinds as a surprise. Of course, I'm grateful. But...Now He's not here to ask the how-do- I-do-this-without-you important question, so either I rip the frigger off the wall, or paint around it.
Decisions, decisions. Life's full of little decisions.
Sitting here, tip-tapping the keyboard to a borrowed computer *Oh yeah, did I forget to mention the laptop crashed? and it will be one week before a new one arrives, if I am lucky* I find myself dreaming of a manicure, scrubbing caked decorator white from my fuzzy brown hair, donning a clean pair of jeans, sitting prettily at a table at an outdoor cafe, writing like the wind, fingerhugging my pen, while sipping a glass of Pinot Grigio.
Care to joy-n me?
Have an abundantly joy-filled day, Widows. And remember, we're not alone.