It is nine days until the one-year anniversary of losing my husband to COVID-19. Nine days until the year mark. I’ve made it through 356 days of grief and I’ve survived, but as the summer turns to fall and the morning air hits me in the face with a rush of coolness instead of heat, my mind and body remembers the sickening loss.
Sleep eludes me, food loses its taste, anxiety floods through me like shocks of electricity. Grief is a relentless emotion, one that is not easy to carry.
It sucks the energy from my body, my mind and my soul; it makes my eyes hollow and my skin pale, and takes my tears until I have no more.