After seven painful months, the search for healing goes on

I WOKE up the other morning, turned around, and remembered he wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t there. He killed himself seven months ago.

This has happened a few times. Not every morning, or even once a week, but a few times. It’s not a good feeling.

When I sat down to write this week, I had the same thought any columnist must have: what’s my subject? Deciding on the topic is half the battle. Once that is done, the words tend to flow. This week, I sat at the computer and tossed around ideas. The election? Some acid commentary on global warming as we all shiver in the unseasonal weather perhaps?