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I am having an identity crisis.  I have always been fairly confidant in who I am.  And I always identified with being something or belonging some where.    I began my first dance class when I was two years old – and being such a young toddler, I quickly identified with being a ballerina.  I wasn’t, of course, but when you are a two-year old and have a tutu and attend a class wearing ballet slippers, you are a ballerina.  At Orchard Avenue Elementary School, I was precise in forming my letters in my Big Chief tablet and took my school work very seriously.  And I quickly identified with being the good girl in school.  Later on, I was a Brownie Scout, a babysitter, an Honor Student, a Girl Scout and a Jobs Daughter.  I was a little sister and a big sister and a best friend and a girlfriend.  I was a graduate and then a wife and shortly after, a mommy.

It all seemed to happen so quickly.  I was a mother of the groom and a grandma and an empty nester and still, a wife.  I was a senior and a caregiver and still, a wife.  Since the age of nineteen, I was always a wife.  Until one day, I wasn’t.

Every night, I rest my hand on your side of the bed, waiting for you to wrap my hand in yours.  And every day, I glance up, expecting to see your face and hear your voice.  Every morning I awake and go over your schedule in my mind.  And every afternoon, I think of something I want to share with you.  And every night, every day, every morning and every afternoon is like the one before – empty of the laughter and secret thoughts that we shared.

I wait.  I wait and wish for our life back.  And it doesn’t come.