Six Months

It’s hard to believe that I have been without my soul mate for six months. Six months ago today, my husband died. I can still see those black curls, I can still smell him, I still have one saved message from him on my cell phone, not that I need it to remember his deep soothing voice. All the firsts are coming quickly back-to-back this season: Thanksgiving, his birthday, the dog’s birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, our anniversary, New Year’s Eve — a new year that I will enter without him.

Of all the things I miss, I guess what I miss the most are the early mornings. He’d be working — as Winston — on his blog, and I’d be in my upstairs office writing or revising an essay. Occasionally, I’d venture downstairs and plop down in the wicker chair beside his desk. He’d look up at me, take his hands off the keyboard, and say, “I guess you want to talk.” Sometimes I did. Sometimes I’d say, “No, I just want to be close to you.” Sometimes I’d ask him to brainstorm with me, if I needed an opinion, or if I needed a particular word to fit a particular situation, or if I needed to come up with a creative phrase or title. It was he who came up with the name for the journal Muscadine Lines.

The dog misses his presence, too. She hates to be away from home, but was obviously happy to be in a house with lots of people and noise for Christmas. She even lay at my son’s feet and rolled over on her back, as if to say, “You can be my new Alpha. I need somebody.” Lord knows I can’t be the Alpha. I get her butt-end — not her face — snuggled up close to me at night. Once a litter mate, always a litter mate.

It’s too quiet and lonely at home.

Six months. Seems like this should be a significant milestone. But…


One Comment on “Six Months”

  1. inktarsia says:

    There are gems on WR’s blog, and sometimes I just poke through to see what fun stuff there is. I never met WR in person, but his unique voice lives on, and it is a witty, compassionate, sweet-ornery voice. It was clear he adored living with the “two blondes.”

    I think he’d be proud of how you’ve come through this. You even got him into print at Creative Nonfiction. (‘Course we could remind him there were better ways to do that…) Won’t be long before that quiet house is filled with the sound of grandbabies, of stories about their grandpa. But I’m sure it won’t be the same. Thinking of you both this week.

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