I’ve been a widow for six months now. I still can’t grasp the concept sometimes. I’m still not “in” the definition. I am going to the National Conference on Widowhood (or widow camp as they call it) this summer. I’m reading Widows Wear Stilettos and am part of that group. But still the W word gets tough to swallow. Not because of anything it says about me. But because it says that Michael is not here.

I’ve just started to call Michael my “late” husband because a lot of times when I talk about my husband people who don’t know me think he’s still alive and it gets uncomfortable for both of us when I have to say what happened. I still talk about him like he’s still alive and I’ve realized I have to let people who don’t know me, know that he’s not.

The other night I was driving home and wanted to call him and tell him something. I then thought, “This is life after Michael. Do I like it? I don’t know yet. I’m not at the ‘liking’ it stage yet.” I’m OKAY. I was happy on vacation. I LOVED being with the kids and grandkids and daughters in law. I’m happy giving interviews. I’m happy when I’m caught up in book things. I’m happy when I’m talking to Gina about college and life and traveling. I’m happy when the gkids come to visit. I’m happy when I think about the new granddaughter due in April. I’m happy when I think about Opening Day at Yankee Stadium. I’m happy when people call me “author.” I’m happy to be going to see my best friend in high school after 30 years. I’m happy when my son offers to come back home to help me out with the house and everything. I am happy when I think I have good kids.

But each of those is a niche happy. When Michael was here, I was content happy. Like all was right in the universe in every area of my life.

Do I like being a widow? No. Will I find a way to happy eventually? Content happy? I hope so. We shall see.