Everything has changed. Larry is gone. I don’t live on the hillside anymore. I don’t have a cat any more. For a time I was bereft, stripped of my identity and ejected from my home. I fantasized about writing accounts of my pain and loss, warning unregistered domestic partners out there about the fragility of a life that is predicated on a relationship not properly documented, registered, in a word, not legal. I was in despair. My health suffered. I learned about grief. Mostly that it feels like going crazy, but it’s not. It’s normal, and suffering is normal, and I’ve been extraordinarily lucky to be only learning about it at this late date. And to my surprise, that’s pretty much all I have to day about the past year and a half. I put away Larry’s photo last week. It dominated the living room of my new apartment as he dominated my life for so many years. Now my life is my own to mold. I joined a group of women who are working through Julia Cameron’s “It’s Never Too Late to Begin Again.” I am excited.