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I am going to do a phone interview with an author in a few weeks so R has been helping by making space on the recorder so I can record the interview and then transcribe it.

There were tons of stuff in there.

Including Val’s very nasal voice yelling, “Wake up, mummy, wake uuuuupppppppppp!!!!!” (to be recorded into my alarm clock)

And Sophia’s beautiful and contagiously happy giggle when R asked her to say something for my alarm clock too.

And me reciting some Chinese passages and Val’s (still very nasal) voice repeating after me.

While we were unexpectedly taken on a trip down memory lane, I saw tears well up in his eyes.

I knew what he was thinking.

Later he told me, “This is still affecting me so heavily. And… I am starting to get puzzled that Time does not seem to be helping. Not a bit.”

Time had not help him one bit.

Had it help me? I am not sure.

I felt a bit guilty. I have my outlets. I can talk to friends, IRL and online. On the phone, in person or via email. I can blog all I want. I can go lay down anytime my spirit is weak. I can hide inside the house and not go out when emotions sometimes overwhelm me.

But he has to go to work everyday, no matter what. He has no time to sit down and write. He is not of the blogging personality-type. He wants to be very private.

Sometimes this is the cause of our fights: you have the luxury to grieve, and be weak. I don’t. I cannot afford to. I have to make sure we still have food to eat.

What can I do to help him?

Sometimes I ask about his grief, when we have the rare moments to ourselves. I try to take over some of those unpleasant household maintenance nonsense. I try to cook good, nourishing foods.

For his upcoming big 4-0, I hope to do something special, although I do not know what, or how. The thing is, Ferdinand died three days before his birthday. It is so close. Too close.

Time did not help him, neither could I. This sucks.

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