Dear Dead Don

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get used to your lack of presence in the house? How hard it is to want to share something with you only to realize I have to tell it to thin air? Darn you, Don! Why did you have to die? I wasn’t finished loving you just yet. And who am I going to yell at for leaving the top off the toothpaste or for not picking up the dog's toys at bedtime? But I’m being strong. You’d be proud of that. I’m taking care of business, getting all your “death stuff” done in fine, chronological order. All the right places and people have been notified that you’re now a dearly departed. All the hospital bills have been paid. And I am now the official head of the household with all the utilities newly in my name. Little Miss Efficiency, that’s me. Little Miss Lonely who talks to the walls and over feeds the dog and who now needs to leave bread crumbs to find her car in parking lots since I no longer park in handicapped.

I’m getting a brand new car tomorrow. Did you know that? Yup, a dealership special: trade in one dead husband and his wheelchair friendly vehicle and walk out with a shiny little Chevy Malibu. Do you know how that feels? Of course, you don’t! Guys never know why women get mad. At least half the time YOU couldn’t figure it out when I had a bee in my bonnet. Hint: New car days should be happy events. They shouldn’t be days that would make any grief counselor think the little old widow is making great progress. Yes, sir, a job well done. Boy, my arm is getting tired from patting myself on the back! 

Damn it, Don! I have money coming in from the insurance company. Money coming in from the sale of your riffle collection. Money coming in from income tax returns. Money coming in from selling your Vette and the power wheelchair. Money, money everywhere and there’s not single thing I can buy without feeling guilty. Tomorrow I’m going to say, “Guilt be damned! I’m buying a damn bike for the damn nature trails even if I have a damned good cry every time I ride the damn thing!” But today I’m not finished being mad at you for dying!

Your pissed off wife.

P.S. I know you know how much I detest the “P” word. So the fact that I’ve turned it into an adjective to sign off this letter ought to tell you not to come haunting my house tonight! If you weren’t already dead, I’d probably kill you for putting me through all this!