You Have Permission

You have permission to grieve.

There is no prescription, no timetable, no right way, no wrong way to mourn the one you love. *Note, I said, "love", present tense. Just because he's dead, doesn't mean your feelings are.* So long as you don't harm yourself or anyone else, there is only one way to grieve. And that's your way.

Maybe it's a short walk on a city street with a stop to admire a pair of leather loafers in Macy's department store window, or a long walk down a wooded path smelling wet grass and listening to the blue jay sing that fills your heart with love and memories for your man. Perhaps you find solace sitting in a crowded room among noisy strangers, think Barnes & Noble, Dunkin' Donuts, Starbucks. Whatever it is that aids in your healing process, go for it. Go to that corner diner. Order that cup of tea, eavesdrop on that conversation at the next table (Remember Woody Allen? Somebody out there remember the name of that movie? You know the one.). Watch the cashier as she doles out change for a twenty to a nervous customer as she juggles her purse, along with a tray of coffees, and a swatch of paper napkins, enough to wash a floor with, clasped in one fist.

For several months after my husband died, I found comfort sitting by his grave. In the past, our Sunday mornings had been filled with us lying naked in bed, sharing coffee and raspberry filled donuts, while pouring over The New York Times and The Journal News. I decided to continue our tradition. Only this time I wore clothes. Looking back through misty-coated eyes, I realize sitting alone at my husband's grave established a new order for me and helped to mend my broken heart. It was something I just had to do. As Frank Sinatra sings, "I did it my way".

You have permission to do it your way.

NitiNil