I can’t hide it. I simply have to admit it and own it. I’m a widow. I’m only 34. But I’m a widow. A widow with two young children. That really sucks. But fuck it, I’m a widow. My husband died in October, 2018. He died at work. Just doing what he always does, but that particular morning had a tragic ending. We have two young boys who were 4 and 6 when the accident happened. My husband and I met when we were kids and became partners in life in our twenties.
Friends with nothing but the sweetest intentions sent me links that contained words from widows. I often wondered if they read them because when I would read what Estelle had to say about losing her husband of 68 years—I would just see that she had sixty more years than me and should stop complaining. I know that’s rude of me. Totally. But I don’t care.
I don’t want to read all these sweet nothings because they are nothing to me. I don’t want self-help books. I don’t want books about the afterlife. Maybe in a year. But not now.
I want fiction that’ll rip the remaining parts of my heart out. I want Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I have no idea why that book brings me comfort but it does. I want to get lost in the dirty, almost hopeless world of Charles Bukowski. Give me gritty poetry. I want to analyze the work of Mario Sanchez Nevado. One of his pieces hangs on my wall and looking at his work now, he has had to have experienced some serious loss. Give me art.
The main image of this site is a piece by Mario Sanchez Nevado.
I want to read from people who say, “Fuck this shit. Everything sucks.” Memories are sweet. Memories piss you off. Days are calm. Days are a damn nightmare. I’m sure it’s out there, but nothing’s grabbed me yet. And so here we are.
And if the title didn’t already tell you, there will be a lot of F bombs. A lot.
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