How?

How did I let you die? I let you die just like I let John die. I thought if I wanted bad enough for you to live, that you wouldn't die. Ridiculous? Yes. Insane? Yes. But somehow I feel I let you get away, that if somehow I could have done something else, something different, you would still be here - across the bed where I could touch you, see you smile, rub my face against your soft sweater. What kind of insanity is this, this helplessness, this guilt? I knew for years that you were dying, yet when the time came, I wasn't ready. Oh, I was ready for you to be at peace, for you to feel no more pain. Why isn't that enough? It's not about you, is it? I don't know how to do this thing, this monster called grief. Jesus. What a fucking nightmare. Here I am, all alone with Honey and Belle in this wonderful little house where we were both so happy. Did I tell you Honey has a torn cartilage in her right hind knee? She's healing slowly. I had a cortisone shot in my knee last week, and it worked. I'm on the bike and doing squats, trying to get fit enough to walk Avon again. Where the hell are you? I need you to know these things, I need you to know that Deidra put me in a private jet and took me to Canyon Ranch Miami Beach so I could spend some time with P on his birthday and get pampered at the same time? She misses you, too, you know.