She heard it again this morning. It hadn’t been her imagination.
With trembling fingers, she picked up the scrap of paper that had fallen to the ground. Smoothing out the rough edges, she read it again. The words that she now knew by heart but had refused to believe all this time.
One hand on her heart and another clutching the sheet, she sat down on the kitchen chair. Dust bunnies beckoned from under the refrigerator. They’d been crying themselves hoarse for a week now.
It had only been that long. A week. How strange was time. A thing of relativity. Dust that accumulates for a week feels negligible. Loss of a person, even for a second, feels unbearable.
He hadn’t just been a person though. She knew it. She always had.
She hadn’t been able to take the ring off her finger. Not since she’d found that sheet on his pillow the day he died. How had he written it? He had had hardly any strength to have his own soup. She’d spoon-fed him even on the last day.
Tears. They never came. Not since he’d stopped breathing. Not now.
But her hands shook. The way they had when she’d fed him soup. The way they had when she found the sheet and his scrawled message. The way they did now when she re-read it for the 100th time.
I am right here. With you.
Day 27 of Daily Writing