I see dead people.

Well, not necessarily all dead people, just my husband. I get a glimpse of him driving in his car down Grand Avenue, or in the backyard when I turn on the outside light. Mostly I see him at night. I wake up for a few seconds and he is sitting in his chair reading. But then he is gone. Gone before I can wave, say hello or make him apologize for leaving me. Perhaps that is his plan, being with me but not actually allowing me to torture him with my constant bitching.

It appears, however, that he shows up only when I hit a milestone in my grief project, as if to say, “Whoa, there Princess…you are going to spend HOW much on the kitchen remodel? Are you sure you want to sign those papers?” Or “Who the hell said you could give away my clothes?” Or even better, “Sure, just take my name off the checking account, I don’t need cigar money here in heaven.” In my mind he is always a bit put out by my obsession with moving forward. In my heart, however, I know differently. He wasn’t one to dwell on things and his matter-of-factness could be maddening. At times, I believe he would even be proud of me (a few exceptions aside).

The new crazy

Anyway, I accept this new crazy. It is a better version of the previous crazy which was intense grief wrapped in a lovely gift package of panic and self-pity. Now, I just roll my eyes and say something like, “OH PLEASE. WHATEVER…” and act as if it really doesn’t bother me that this type of behavior is what asylums are built for.

I choose to believe my sightings are a bit of a “thumbs up” to me. A nod of appreciation for taking care of the finances with his parents and kids, a kick-ass wake and funeral, and for bringing him into my world of family and friends who loved him so much. OR it’s a new form of crazy that may evolve into 24-hour pajamas and pills distributed out of paper cups.

Either way, I’m good if I see dead people. As long as it’s him.

Following her husband’s death, Lore Powell, PRiME contributor, kept a journal she refers to as “The Grief Project.” She is graciously allowing us to share her entries with you, our readers. If you want to follow Lore’s journey from the beginning, you can begin here

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About The Author

Lore Powell

Lore Powell is an average, somewhat normal, middle aged woman from Illinois who has never quite figured out the intricacies of life, but keeps trying. Lore has had several titles in the last 52 years including, but not limited to, daughter, caretaker, wife, mother, divorcee, employee, Ice Princess, widow and Three Margarita Lore. Journal writing is the only way she makes sense of her ever evolving landscape. Her girlfriends, also known as the best female support system around, were her only audience…until now. Now she welcomes you to her world, and if in the neighborhood, her wine.