I read a local food blog last week that said one of our favorite hipster pizza places was closing under suspicious circumstances and that the owner was leaving the employees high and dry. This was the kind of story that J would have been all over: he would have sent me the link at 5 am, asked me about at 9 and followed up at the end of the day with some tidbit he had read in a local chat room, or better yet, emailed the blogger directly.
I read the story and thought: boy, I have no one to discuss this with.
This is how you pass the time when you live in the hospital: you discuss, in depth, the tiny stories like this. And J LOVED stories like this, especially if they related to local restaurants. (which is HIGHLY ironic because he was a very picky eater)
I remember after my mom died, how much I missed talking to her every day. This is completely different. I don’t get to do my daily run down of how the kids are doing. I don’t get to tell him that the big one had her braces adjusted and she’s miserable and moping around, or that the little one did pretty damn good at her diving competition despite being besodden with grief. I can’t tell him about the never-ending bathroom renovation that we were building for him. But in the end, that’s not what I miss. I miss the weird stories, the obscure links to blogs.
And I had nobody to talk to about the fact that we will never again have onion-soup pizza.