She was asked, “So, how do you handle the grief?” She paused a moment, averted her gaze and replied, “Sometimes I don’t. Although ours was not an idealized life together, the loss of 35 years is a blow. Tears are a constant companion. Almost a craving – the pain…known to me. What I’m familiar with; and anything that lessens the solemness, loss, hurt almost an intrusion now. I cry. I question. I scream…anguished, uncertain, sorrow-filled. When momentary frivolity lights on me, I feel it is a betrayal. A betrayal of all the seriousness. Of all those sudden hot, flushes lodged in my abdomen: the funereal gloominess of reality. Prolonged, drawn out Reality; numbing in lengthiness. Each weary day brings its own version of bad news and the gut-punch of his taciturn hours – unaware I exist. Me. The one who remains accountable, answerable – responsible to decide on care…level of care; final arrangements; distribute funds to keep him safe and guarded and sheltered…while mindful of pennies for my own sustenance. Do this and more while drawing to me and wearing the face of a Pollyanna. It’ll all be okay, I tell myself. Somehow, some way he’ll keep the level of care that sustains him. I will starve in this saturnine existence – for a non-morose life. A life absolved of life and death decisions. A daily life sans 24 hours of dolefulness.” The ascent of her voice trails, aware of the intensity…and she finishes, “Handle the grief? …I don’t.”