Today, a visit to the local Social Security office where I had to prove I was married to Hubby by showing them our original marriage certificate. Really? The SSA couldn’t collaborate with some other government agency—like maybe the IRS—to get that information?
And then coming out of a mammogram appointment, I point my key ring at my car. The doors won’t unlock. Which was exactly what happened at the snowshoe trailhead a couple weeks ago when the battery died. Oh great, I’m thinking, another drained battery.
The brother-in-law who lectured me about not letting my gas tank drop below half, is now going to lecture about dead batteries. And Hubby is probably knocking his head against a wall in heaven somewhere. And then I discovered my car. One parking space ahead. (Hubby is still hitting his head.)
Later at home I came across this anniversary card in my paring down and packing. The front reads:
I love living life with you. I can’t imagine anyone who would’ve been a better companion and friend for me along the way.
And even though Hubby never received this card—because I hid it too well in my sock drawer and forgot about it—he knew I felt this way. He knew I loved living life with him.
The only thing he wasn’t sure of was if I would be OK on my own. He fretted over that until the day he died. But I’m doing my best to prove he had nothing to worry about.
Well, except for the forgetting-to-check-the-gas-gauge thing. And the killing-the-car-battery thing. Oh, and then there’s the trying-to-break-into-someone-else’s-car thing. Other than that, widowhood is going well.