It’s been eight months. I don’t intentionally count, but I can’t seem to avoid it.

Thirty years ago I knew I would be in this place. I wouldn’t have done it any other way, but it sure hurts.

I changed the sheets on the bed this morning (nothing remarkable there). I chose to use a new set of sheets Alan had purchased some time ago but never got around to using, so it’s as if they were a Christmas present from him.

In other news, refurbishment work has begun on the porches at the house. This is exciting! I have a plumber who will be getting a bathroom functioning at the shop. This is also exciting.

I adopted the three kittens I was fostering (Who doesn’t need more chaos in their life?), and they have turned out to be extraordinarily affectionate.

Despite my profound sadness, life is very good. I have wonderfully supportive friends who take my grief in stride.