At night the furnace comes on every 23 minutes. I count things.
It's warmer out today, it's damp and wonderful, just like the coldest days of my former Nova Scotia winters, the kind that howl right through your bones and out the other side, as if you aren't even present.
It's a day for warm cinnamon buns and thick scarves and sitting in a chair that makes me miserable while I watch Ruth and Henry draw pictures for their counselor while we talk gently about how we feel.
I'd like to scream.
But I don't.
We stopped on the way home and got a Gingerbread house kit to make. That will be fun, I think.
Thursday was bad, yesterday was interesting and today is sort of a mix of good and difficult. Each day gets a number and today is day 37 and at this point I don't want to hear that it will get easier with time, I'd like to know how to make it easier now.
(That's 37 days since he left, not since he died.)
