Making my way down aisle three at the Super Stop and Shop. See, it’s better because it’s super? Very much like the old movie, This Is Spinal Tap. The musician has a guitar that goes to eleven. That’s better than all the other guitars that only go to ten? Same kind of thinking, in my book. It is a huge inside joke, at my house. But now, the inside jokes just stay with me. I never realized just how many private moments there were between us. Strange feeling. Like one hand clapping. Luckily, Scott’s very best friend from Northwestern is a stand up comedian and I can call her or visit “The Wilds of Brooklyn“, anytime I need an inside joke relief. Or just about anything. One very pleasant result of losing my love is gaining all the friends that loved him so. This would have made Scott so happy. It makes me happy, too.
On the shelf of the supermarket, lies a sale on smoked sardines. “Oh great, he’ll love them”, I think to myself, actually tossing in two cans of the vile stuff, ’cause I know how much he loves them. Sadly, it does not occur to me until three aisles later,I don’t have to buy these, anymore. I then look around, actually embarrassed that someone will see the giant tears that are falling onto my wallet and the New York Times I also bought for him. I sense the urge to flee, like a pressure building up in me that I can’t escape, even with deep breaths.
Getting into the car, after aborting my trip when I recognize I can’t pull it together enough to go talk to the deli guy and buy some of that coleslaw with the poppy seeds he likes. I just can’t today. Some days are like that. Other days are not. Grief is not scheduled. It’s like walking around with your t shirt, inside out. Sometimes you don’t realize the seams are showing are until you’ve already left the house. That’s what tomorrow is for.