The Strange Mechanism of Grief- part one

If you've loved and lost, you know that the oddest things can trigger a knee-bending wave of sadness and memory.

There are obvious sadnesses, but there is nothing like the unexpected stab to the solar plexus. These things are almost comic in their inappropriatenss or banality.

I miss Oscar. [Miss seems such a distant word.] No, I mourn Oscar, most keenly when I:

- use the Eucalyptus cleanser from Method

- hear the song "Lola" by Ricky Martin

- feel a strong patch of sunlight on my bedspread at 9am and see there is an absence there

- walk by the 7-11 where George always got a vanilla tea and Oscar and I would wait outside for him on our walk around town

- open a container of roast chicken from Wegmans and there is no one who magically appears in the doorway, waiting patiently and politely to be noticed

- and there's the night. The long night stretching out in front of me. It's not the refuge it used to be. The night and its accompanying insomnia have become something, more often than not, to endure.

It's been five months and I still can't bear to eat my favorite cheese popcorn. Because that was Oscar's favorite, too.

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The "fabulous" photo was taken a few years ago when Oscar and I had Chinese food with Anne and Jimbo and Amanda. They hid the cats. Oscar wore my scarf.