Today, a friend at work (my birthday twin--date, not year) wished me a happy last-day-of-my-forties. I’d never thought of it that way before, but the first thing that came to mind was “Good! Get me the fuck out of my forties!” thinking of it, of course, as the decade where I lost Ken . But upon further reflection, it’s a decade full of as many highs as lows—-more, even. Of course, Ken is foremost on my mind when I think about my forties. It started with him--literally waking

I've felt the pull of this day for a couple of weeks. Uneasiness and my  social impotence returned, leaving me tired and usually in the desire of no one's company. For someone as far down the path of grief as I consider myself, I'm more than a little surprised when I find an impending Ken-related milestone still throws a wrench into the works. He would have turned fifty years old today. Fifty. Odd. Fifty seems so young to this forty-seven year old--let alone forty-five whic

Yesterday was my birthday. And I woke up to—and enjoyed-all kinds of well wishes all morning. But like most milestones  Ken  was on my mind. Not in a sad way. Just in the way I  carry him with me  way. Of course, it’s impossible not to remember his fondness for ensuring I had a special day from the moment my head lifted from my pillow, until it collapsed drunkenly back into it.  Birthdays celebrated with Ken  were delightful and special. Birthdays are meaningful days for mos