Today is a day for poetry

(I woke up sad this morning, and then realized - it's April. Steve would have been 68 on the 25th of this month. That apparently still, yet, even, gets to me, even when I'm not consciously thinking of it.)

Change Is Not Infinite

Because of who I am - the parts that do not change -
I still remember the things we didn't do, the things we didn't fix
The things we didn't say.
That's just the way
I am. I have changed, but change is not infinite,
And regret, apparently, is.
I still stop at the stations marked "anger" - there are several stops on that line.
He didn't take better care of himself.
He left the dishes unwashed.
He took the long way around to avoid tolls,
Even though we could afford them,
And even though it made us late.
And then anger at myself,
For being angry at him for those things,
When I never told him so then.
He might have changed!

That stage of grief where you look back only at happy memories?
Moving forward to thinking only of now and the future?
I don't think this train is going to make it to that station.
I don't think I'm on that line,
I'm probably not even on that continent.

(And once again, friends, it is neither your duty nor obligation to attempt to (a) tell me it's OK to feel this way, (b) remind me that everyone has their own path, (c), try to jolly me out of this mood, (d) whine or sob together with me. ALL you do, if you don't want to annoy me, is wait it out. I'm not asking for sympathy or empathy, I'm JUST VENTING. OK? You know who you are - stop offering comfort and support, because that implies that I need comfort and support, when what I need is just to talk myself right back out of this mood by myself, which I am quite capable of doing. THIS MEANS YOU.)