The ending of the best movie ever

One thing that has surprised me — and I don’t think it is either positive or negative — is that for all we make of each other and stuff . . . once you are gone . . . the space that you occupied just gets filled right in with other stuff. 

When they say you cease to exist — wow. That is sooooo understated. 

I really thought that after 38 years of marriage to Don, I would be devastated to the point of not being able to function. I thought I would feel like my entire right side would be missing. I thought my grief and sadness and emptiness would be so great I would have something really tangible to deal with. That it would be so huge, I could physically handle it, train it, and finally put it away. 

But there doesn’t seem to be any big ball of devastation that I can bounce for awhile and then toss away from me. 

Instead, Don’s passing was more like the ending of the best movie ever. You get up and walk out of the theater and can’t believe that it is still daylight, and you have to stop by the grocery store on your way home. 

It all seems so mundane after such an epic movie, complete with drama, characters, and fabulous location shoots. It feels more like walking in a mist, a soft fog. 

He was here . . . and now, he simply isn’t. I am still here . . . without him. I am still breathing, sleeping, doing . . . 

How is that even possible?

From Dorrie Koller.

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