Working out details
to put everything on hold.
Masking broken hearts.
As I've written about the past couple of days, the most spectacular man in my husband's life died Sunday. At quiet moments, when I find myself alone with no ability to do any of the many tasks which must be tended to for the two of us to get to England, I grieve. I weep. And I laugh because I remember Ken, my brilliant partner in repartee.
But there are almost no quiet moments because there is much to do. And that "much" hides our pain until I imagine it will burst forth on the very long flights and when we are able to be with Margaret in person to tell her what she surely already knows about that husband of hers.
[Written in response to this week's One Single Impression prompt. Do take the time to read what others are disguising.]