Dear John,
After work I made my shopping trip to Goshen. I had a nice lunch with you - only a few sprinkles of rain - and got home before the deluge hit. I looked for Hunter for half an hour and finally found him when I turned the recliner over. He seems to have been frightened by the storm. He never was before; maybe Jethro has influenced him. Poor baby.
I heard Nights in White Satin in the car today. One part struck me:
Streets full of people, some hand in hand. Just what I'm going through they can't understand. Some try to tell me thought they cannot defend. If I hear one more platitude, I won't be responsible for how the conversation ends. Because I love you.

Handling the should-ers is familiar territory for me; they follow fibromites around in droves. Everybody that can't spell fibromyalgia knows exactly what would cure it. And people who have never grieved know what would cure that, too. But grief, like fibromyalgia, can't be cured, and widows don't need fixing. All we need to hear is that people care and are sorry. That's it. Nothing else.
So tonight I'm declaring a platitude-free zone around all widows everywhere. I doubt it will do any good, but imagining it might make us feel better. And that's something, isn't it?
Adore you,
Joan.
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