I promised I would write tonight. So I am trying to write something, anything, that won't sound like a bad copy of a tape you've heard before. It's not happening so far. I could write about the long lonely weekend hours, when my faithful readers spend the days away from their computers and my most heartfelt cries go unread. I could write about the sudden sharp pang of loss, of wishing I could spend even one more day with Jolene. I could write about the numerous mistakes I made at work last month, when I thought I was doing okay.
Why has today been so hard? I rested well. It's June. Almost three months have passed since Jolene's death. The sun shines and warmth at last seeps into my sore bones.
I'll hazard a guess. I have zeroed in on my finishing my second mystery, A String of Murders, in the weeks since Jolene's death. At last, for all intents and purposes, it's done. Maybe the need to finish the project kept me going. Perhaps now that it's finished, my mind and body are reminding me of the surgical removal of my daughter from my life.
Oh, Jolene, I miss you so.