Where does the time go?

In a couple of days I shall have been living in this house for 7 years.

I have written before about the state it was in when we moved here. Filthy, full of rubbish, damp, cold and very sad.
We shouldn't have bought the place. The house was too big. It needed too much work and we weren't great at DIY. We had wanted a bit more land, and the village was a lot further from the train station and R's work than was ideal, which would mean that he would have to commute on a weekly basis rather than every day. We had intended to get somewhere a lot closer to my family, and this was an hour away.
So we agreed that it was all wrong and we would carry on looking for somewhere else.

But over the course of the weekend we kept on talking about the ramshackle house we had visited in the little village in the middle of nowhere. A week later we went back for another look - and made an offer that was less than the asking price, but still more than it was probably worth.
The offer was accepted and the rest is history!

And for all the expense, cold nights, hassle and work that it has caused, it was the perfect place for us. R loved it here; when he came back on Friday evening, he would take off the professional suit and change into his tatty checked shirt and ancient combat trousers, drink a beer, relax, talk and plan, eat hearty home-produced food and decide on the next project.

For me, it was absolutely the right place. I loved it the moment I first saw the house and the village, but didn't want to persuade R because he would be the one who had to work away.
The benign nosiness of village life has been just what I needed. People aren't intrusive, but they care and they do check up to make sure I'm alright. Even now. I have not once felt afraid to be living alone because I know the neighbours are there and they will look after me. I don't often ask for help, but when I do, it is freely given. I don't think that I could find a better place in which to be widowed!

And today it is 19 months exactly since R died.
I don't quite understand how that can be possible, but the calendar tells me it is true.

The tears, the stomach lurches when something reminds me of him, the longing to feel his touch again are all still there, and I don't think will ever leave me entirely, but I feel I can do grief now in the way that people must learn to manage their lives if they lose a limb or their sight.

It also occurred to me today that I have been writing this blog for over a year. I cannot for the life of me remember exactly what it was that prompted me to start and it amazes me that I have carried on for so long, albeit with a couple of gaps. In the past, diary-writing has always gone the same way as New Year's Resolutions!

Before I started, I was always slightly suspicious of people who cast their thoughts and feelings out to the world in this way - it never seemed quite The Thing to do. Yet the writing allows me to express what I would never say out loud. Focussing on the words has helped me to get through some of the hardest periods of pain and clarify exactly what I am feeling. It also helps with remembering what has happened over these past months, as I certainly don't remember if I don't actively put it into words.

And I gain so much strength from our little community brought together by sadness. Knowing that there are people out there who understand, who know what I am feeling - even if they don't actively speak to me - is such a source of strength.
Thank you to you for being there.