I'm sitting here with Word open, thinking about writing. I have a bag of Chick-O-Sticks and a bag of Bit-O-Honey candy, and I'm working my way through the bags. It's a hard day, and on these days I seek the relatively small comfort of food. Sweet foods, because that's my comfort. Better than a big old plate of meatloaf or a pizza. I need my sweets.

The Bit-O-Honey's are making my jaw crack with the effort of chewing them. My desk is littered with candy wrappers, and Saving Grace is in the DVD player. Earlier I looked at pictures of my little angel and then read for hours over the news items about the murders of my family members.

It came down to pneumonia, for my daughter. Have I told you that? She had pneumonia, an infection that she could not fight, and blood clots on her brain. Her little body couldn't fight.

God, how I miss that girl.

This is good, to write about it, because I don't want to talk about it to people, not anymore. I feel like they're wanting me to get on with life, to just get better. And I can't. I pretend to, though, for most of them. It's better that way.

Sometimes I just get so tired, so exhausted. I'm eager to go be with her, to be out of this hard, hard life. The couple of people I've mentioned that to look at me funny, like I'm going to go jump off a building or something. I'm not. I'd be too afraid that suicides might have to learn more life lessons, might not be able to go where we go when we leave this world. And I have to go be with her when it's my time to go. She needs me. I need her.

Besides, there are other people here to think about. Most importantly, my son. But that doesn't keep me from longing, or thinking that from now to then will probably be a long, long time.

For his sake, I hope so. For mine, not so much.

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