That’s a line from The Wizard of Oz, and it’s oh, so true in Texas as it was in Munchkin City.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of Scott’s death.

This is not a day we commemorate in any way, my sweet children, friends or family. I think on that first anniversary I told everyone not to touch me that day, lest I break into a million pieces. They were kind and stayed far away.

I’m better now, three years later, and can talk about it without crying, most of the time.

But since I named this blog The Widow Woman, it seems right that I should mark this year with some words.

To recap: Scott had knee replacement surgery, and was recovering extremely well. Then he started running a fever. We were trying to get into the car to get to the ER when he collapsed in the driveway. My heroes, the local fire department, tried to save him, but he was gone at the hospital. The ICU doctor told me that Scott’s story would be that he died of the flu. He got it in the hospital and I know that’s true because his good friend got it the same weekend after visiting Scott in the hospital after the surgery.

Year One I rushed to keep our business going, with the help of my sweet co-grandmother Tamala (her son is married to my daughter and she worked with us for 5 years) and my dear friend Steve who showed up at the store and offered to help (urged by his wife and my friend Adrienne.) He’s still working with me. I also had my brother’s sons Cash and Jett who preferred being part of my rag-tag band to flipping burgers, I think.

Work kept me busy and at night and on weekends there were friends and family who reached out and miraculously wanted to spend time with me. I can’t imagine I was very good company, but they kept coming. My children in particular were amazing and we managed to keep our traditions alive.

And Molly called me every single day. Mondays were hard because I would have spent a good portion of the weekend alone, and I would start to cry at some point during our conversation. And she would say, “Oh, no, this must be Monday.” And we would laugh. Laughing saved my life. It still does.

And the nights and the days were the first year.

Year Two we got COVID. Not me personally, but the universal “we” got it, but good. I spent the first six months trying to keep my business afloat with Tamala and Steve and the boys, staggering our hours, taking drop-offs and pick-ups to ridiculous levels as if we were working for the CIA in clandestine operations. We sanitized everything that moved, and stayed well until Christmas when my family all got sick, not me, still, go figure.

I quarantined in a pod that included Molly, Beau and the girls, so I was never fully alone and once again worries about work, and the terror of COVID occupied my mind and I kept mourning at arm’s length.

“Oh, no, you will not cry today. You have to do payroll.”

Molly called almost every day, and we cried less often. She avoided that by not calling on Mondays.

And the COVID updates and the lockdowns were the second year.

Year Three I sold the business and redid my upstairs.

If you’re seeing a pattern here, you’re right. Procrastination is my best thing and I have put off grieving for Scott for nearly three years.

Don’t get me wrong, I have cried buckets, I have railed at the universe, I have snuggled with the one sweater I bought him that last Christmas. I talk to him at least once a day, sometimes I ask if he wants coffee or what he’d like for dinner. He never answers.

And there’s the problem. I can busy myself with bathroom updates, flower bed cleanouts, electronics sales, COVID worries and a thousand other things. But in the still dark quiet of night, he’s gone. And I know it. And I am sometimes angry, sometimes lonely, sometimes frightened, and always here.

Grief is a funny thing. It hovers around the edges of everything and sometimes breaks through my busy-ness barriers and whacks me in the heart. And that’s okay. I can handle the grief in spurts. But I can’t live in it fulltime. I don’t think Scott would have wanted me to. He was pretty practical.

Year Four starts tomorrow. Molly calls a few times a week now. I talk to my other children all the time, too and we have family gatherings frequently. I’d be lost without them. And I still have my sweet friends whom I see when we feel safe. (COVID is a bigger deal when you’re older.) I have more time on my hands now that I am semi-retired which I fill with FreeCell, Hallmark movies, crossword puzzles, website and graphics work, and texting threads with friends and family. But there are still times when I have to face my future alone. In those times, I give myself a moment to cry or scream or whatever, and then I go to my typewriter.

I find solace in words. And I’m grateful.