Yesterday I was terribly out of sorts, and could not go to sleep last night for the disturbing visions of Margret in the hospital that were dancing in my head. I ended up sitting reading, legs wrapped in a sleeping bag and lap robe around my shoulders, all night.
As the first tentative rays of sunlight explored my front window, it dawned on me that this is the six month anniversary of her death.
In my head I've been composing something I call, How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count The Ways, but I can't get it to shift from inside my head to paper or file. *sigh* One of these days I'll get it to make the transition.
I've been processing feelings about the holidays for a while now, and still working on it.
The drive to see family for Thanksgiving was peculiar, both going and returning home. I kept having little moments of panic that I had forgotten to pack something extremely important. The first time or two, I could not pin it down; I went over a mental list of my packed items and could not see anything missing. Another time when it happened, I glanced in the mirror to see how Margret was doing, and realized it was herself I was missing. Understanding did not banish the moments, but they were lessened.
Travel at Christmas I only had one or two such moments, and only on the way there.
During both holidays, it was wonderful seeing family again, and spending a little time together.
On a very much more mundane note, winter has set in. We have cold and snow, and in such weather I quite prefer the indoors. I've been reading books by Sharyn McCrumb, both the Ballad novels and a few of her Elizabeth MacPherson stories, from the public library.