Talking to myself

Since my wife died I find myself talking to myself, much more than I did before.
Or more precisely, talking to no one in particular, since there’s no one here any more except my dog, who can’t understand what I’m saying.
She probably knows I’m heartbroken.
What I say through tears are things like:
-“It’s just you and me, Big Monster. Just the two of us,”
-”Maybe some day I’ll make sense,”
-”We’re home, except it isn’t the home it was. There’s a gigantic hole,” and
-”The Old Lady is gone!”
What usually happens is my voice trails off to near silence.
“The hole is in you,” my brother declared. “Houses can be replaced.”
“You got it, baby!” I said.
(“Old Lady” was a term of endearment. I was “The Old Man,” “Geezer,” whatever. No “Old Hag” for this kid!)
Living alone is frightening.
I was married to that lady 44 years, and all-of-a-sudden she’s gone.”
I’m smashed to bits. I barely exist.
A surfeit of things needs to be done, yet I have no gumption.
My confidence seems to have vaporized with my wife’s death.
Things we used to do together now seem out-of-reach to me alone.
Trips, railfan excursions, airline flights.
(I’ve been a railfan since age-2; I’m now 68.)
I’ll probably get back to doing such things, but now it feels like I can’t.
So now “It’s just you and me, Big Meat-head. Just the two of us.”
I doubt the dog knows what I’m saying, but she seems thrilled I talk to her.
(Every dog I’ve ever had I called “Meat-head.” It’s a term of endearment, like “pot-heads” like marijuana, my dog likes meat.)

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)