BTW, He's Dead

I feel, sometimes, like that's how it goes.

I get an email asking for his signature, or a piece of mail, or some such thing. I reply.

Sometimes I soften the blow for the recipient. Sometimes—fuck it, I just don't have it in me.

I take a Sharpie to the envelope and scrawl DECEASED (but, leave out MOTHER FUCKER, which is what I really want to write).

Yeah, he's dead. You'll need to deal with me.

Return to sender. Deceased.

Oh, BTW, widow.

Jaded? Maybe.

Reality? Yup.

I check "Ms." and mark "widow," but I still get his mail and have to explain at least once a week that he is gone.

I explain it at the dentist. I explain it to the bank. I fill it out on forms for school. Still. Always. Forever.

How do we fix this, people? How do we make this easier? It shouldn't be this constant, stabbing, always reminder of the pain.

A week off. Just one.

I am not the only widow. I am not unique.