The Third Year is Different
4/8/2019 This third year of his death is different. It is as if I do self-talk and let myself know there is no way possible that I can go through another year of the pain I went through the second year after his death. Each day I have to make myself do some small thing or some big project to know that I am truly progressing and that I am truly alive. Today was an overcast day, then suddenly I looked out of my window and it was raining; a good steady rain, one that wouldn’t stop in a few minutes. As I stood at my kitchen window, which looked over my backyard and the green grass and saw the rain coming steadily down, an image of Clyde as a young farmer filled my mind. He would work so hard to plant and tend his crops. He had no irrigation at that time and depended on the rain to water his crops. It had been an unusual dry spell and the crops were so thirsty. I walked through our bedroom and he was sitting on the floor by the window with the window raised. I said,