I’m attracted to abstract art and surrealism. The first artist that truly pinched my soul was Salvador Dali who I learned about in high school. Since then the crazier and more beautiful the piece of art, the better. But it couldn’t just be a mess with no recourse. It had to have areas of light and dark. The ugly was beautiful. The painful was eye-opening; and the emotion it elicited was raw and real.
That was my husband. I used to joke and tell him to be careful, because I am the one who will be writing his story one day.
I never wrote for someone else to understand me; I wrote to understand myself. I never wanted to share my writings with him. I didn’t want him to know those inner-workings of me. I didn’t want him to look at me with a sad eye. I believe we had that in common. If I were to pinpoint one thing he hated about me, other than me eating almonds while watching Game of Thrones, it would be that he couldn’t hide from me. But he tried.
We are all human. Death is inevitable. That’s why I’m sitting here in newfound widowhood.
If you’re interested in writing where I reflect on this, choose pieces from the “Notes” category.