100 Days of Solitude

One hundred days.

That's how many days have passed since my beloved Susan died. July 22nd, 10:05 AM--that was when I had to say goodbye to the woman who was the center of my world.

I've always had a thing for numbers. That's why I keep track of these things, I guess. One week without Susan. One month. Fifty days. Thirteen weeks—one season. And now one hundred days.

I wasn't sure that I'd be alive a hundred days after Susan's death.

Sometimes I wasn't sure that I wanted to be alive a hundred days after Susan's death.

I'm lucky. This is also a Wednesday, which means I'll be busy at the store most of the day. I'll get to see my close friends who come by the store every day. After the store closes, we'll go to dinner together at El Rodeo, as we do every Wednesday. Those are the things that will help me get through tomorrow.

But I know I'll be sad. I know I'll be lonely. I know I'll shed tears for Susan. In those ways, tomorrow will be like every one of the past one hundred days, I guess--but I suspect the sorrow and loneliness will be more intense.

One hundred days without her. How can that be?

There are other somber landmark days ahead. My first Thanksgiving without her. My first Christmas alone. My first Valentine's Day alone. Next June, my first wedding anniversary that I can't share with Susan. Then the most sad day of all--the one year anniversary of her passing.

Maybe it gets easier after that.

But somehow, I don't think it really does.

I think I'll just get better at hiding it.