It's difficult for me to grasp that the 10-month anniversary of Tal's death is under a week away. While I am getting through each day, most of the time with energy and gratitude, there are times of terrible sorrow that simply wring the life out of me.

I awoke one day recently after a night of amorphous dreams with the word "sustain" on my mind. It was a strong enough recollection through the morning that I looked the word up. To strengthen or support physically or mentally. I could count that vague memory as happenstance, and maybe it is. It could just as easily, however, be a hint as to a quality I can nurture as I continue on.

​People who support worthy causes are put in a sustainer ​category. Notes are sustained in music. Oh, or there's the clear, long tone of a tuning fork. Food, clothing, shelter are considered essential for sustaining life. Sustain is a hopeful word.

​Sad as I am, I am sustained, and I know it. Through photographs of trips Tal and I made, which I am fashioning into albums. Through encounters with family and friends. Through unexpected delights of memory.

​Later this week my mother and I are driving to Virginia for a baby shower. My nephew and his wife are expecting their first child. As I began giving attention to travel plans, to what to take with me, to how to get two giant boxes wrapped and transported, I experienced just such an unexpected delight.

​These two photographs were made in the spring of 1991. (The processor's stamp on the back of each reads APR 91​.) They are of my then new husband, Tal, and our equally new nephew, Andrew. 
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It's that cute baby who's about to become a father. And, that lovely man is the one whose death I grieve. Remembering that spring day 26 years ago -- not to mention the relief of being able to locate the photographs when I wanted and needed to see them -- is something that sustains me today, holding me steady, providing support. They are a clear note sounding through this day.

I attended a lovely Independence Day gathering earlier this week five houses down the street. While all of the guests were from our neighborhood, there were several people there I've not had a conversation with lately. It was a lovely to catch up.

​More than one person asked me how I'm faring. I expected that. It wasn't a case of nosiness. There was no judgement intended. I don't think so, anyway. I answered, talking about a weekend away in early June, plans to attend a family baby shower later this month. And, I learned about vacations, adventures with grandchildren, book recommendations. Plus, the food was outstanding! I'm so glad I went.

​Since then, the oft-repeated question has come back to mind, though. How am I faring?

​I'm OK. This bereavement isn't for the faint of heart, that's for certain. I'm realizing that the sadness I am feeling is always going to be with me. Life with Tal was finer than either of us realized, and I miss the way things used to be.

​In some ways the sadness is stronger than it was right after Tal's death. What has changed is the acute nature of the pain. It no longer has that exquisite, piercing, breath-taking quality it did early on. Now, it's a steady presence, heavier at times than others.

​I am also realizing that I have choices -- of all sorts. What, and when, to eat, whether to keep the house, if to push for gainful employment, where I might like to travel, how to observe the next round of holidays. It makes my head spin.

Other choices are more subtle. And, likely more important. I can pick up the camera. I can get up early -- write, walk, weed. I can schedule outings. I can be the initiator of conversations with friends rather than waiting to be called.

I can choose whether to let the sadness dictate how I feel and what I do. In fact, that might be my most important conclusion so far. With a deliberate and deep breath I can choose to lay it aside, if for only an hour or just a few minutes, whatever I can manage. The sadness doesn't have to be all there is.

​So, now what?

Who am I going to be? How am I going to act? What am I doing to do?

I get to choose.

The calendar I use -- yes, a paper calendar still -- numbers the days. In the upper right hand corner of each block I see both the number of the current day as well as the number of days left in the year.

Over the weekend those two numbers came close to matching each other. Saturday was #182 with 183 days to go; yesterday was #183 with 182 to go. Too bad 2017 has an odd number of days ... Somewhere, though, between Saturday and Sunday there must have been a moment of absolute in-between, where the year hung in a split second of balance.

​Why does that interest me so? A half empty vs half full thing, maybe? Thinking back, I have always -- like when on a trip -- reassured myself that there was still time left, an "it's not over yet" outlook. I do enjoy the thought of closer to the beginning than to the end.

On the other hand, there are activities that inspire in me a bit of gladness that the conclusion is nearer than the beginning. I'm thinking house cleaning. On those occasions I sometimes hear in my head the line Tal used to offer: "Well, it's not as long (or as far) as it has been," a favorite on an overly optomistic day's driving.

​Today is the first Monday in the second half of the year. There's plenty of year left. What I think I realize, as I consider the passage of time and our calendar milestone, is that more important than where we are on the beginning-to-end continuum is my attitude, my outlook. There's a lot more in the balance than the number of days so far and the number left.

​We may have reached the peak and are beginning the descent. There's nothing to do about that. What's happened so far has lessons to teach. And, it might be all downhill from here. But, what lies before is nevertheless a beginning. What could be better than that?