Tomorrow, 8/25, is the third anniversary of my husband Steven’s death. I sailed through the first two anniversaries in dissociative bliss and planned to do the same this year—my body and mind had a different plan. My son and I flew from NYC to Los Angeles on Thursday, 8/22 with the intention of seeing some sights and sitting by the pool at our Airbnb until 9/3 when we had a flight home. I am currently at LAX, 8/24, waiting for our 9 am flight to board. My son and I were miserable, he wouldn’t even use the pool. We both just want to be home, and I want to be close to my husband’s ashes. I did not see this coming, and it never occurred to me that I would feel the desperate need to be with Steven’s remains. The whole thing is ridiculously heartbreaking. Grief is a motherfucker.