In another 11 hours, I'll be out of 2014 for good.

I'm afraid. I seldom feel that way. Even after Stu had his stroke, I wasn't scared, and I used to tell him so, that nothing scared me any more. That changed in October and now? Now I face a future without my honey, without the man who made my life good, more than good, who made the bad shit tolerable and the good stuff funny and wonderful. The man who loved me so much. The man I loved with everything in me.

I'm afraid of the future. I'm afraid of next year and getting through. Yes, I know there are some good things on the horizon, but right now, right now this minute today, that doesn't help. I'm scared. Not exactly of being alone. I've been alone before and there is a lot about that that appeals to me. I always worried that I'd feel crowded in a long-term relationship, that at some point, I'd sit up in the middle of the night and start yelling about "I gotta get OUT of here." Ridiculous. Some of the alone stuff is attractive, which of course makes me feel terribly guilty.

I wear Stu like a shawl. He is in me and he covers me. He is everywhere. Even though he never saw this apartment, he knew - and believed - that it was ours, never just mine. Spreading out now into the spaces that were going to be his is sad, and weird, even while I know it is the right and smart thing to do.

The other half of the bed is still covered in fuzzy toy animals. I talk to them. It's probably something I shoud not admit - makes me sound like a bit of an immature loon - but they were part of our silliness, and part of his caring for and about me.

You know I've been saying it and I will say it again. Tell those you love that you love them. Appreciate them and find ways to be sure they know. Do not ever, ever, take the ones you love for granted. They are too important.

I am scared to look ahead. I am not looking forward to 2015. I was looking forward to 2014. Stu and I knew there were good things coming. Getting married, sure, was one, but so was the idea of his coming home. I kept telling Stu as the year wore on, especially after June, that he was on his way. I said that over and over "You are on your way." He was improving so damn much - even two years after having the stroke. He was on his way home. It was going to be one of the best years.

I'll get through it. People do all the time. I know this. At least I know it intellectually. But I find myself so hesitant, so uncaring. It's hard to look ahead. I am afraid.