He’s a lumbering sort of fellow, slightly hunched, always tense.
During the last six weeks, we’ve spent more time together than the previous 10 years, including around our father’s death.
Two consecutive evenings, he has found his way here. Finally comfortable, he settles into the recliner, raids the chocolate stash, and waxes philosophical on topics from his profession and mine.
Neither of us stated the date or time, but he seemed to linger until a bit after 8:36. As if we could stop her death from being real.
In six weeks since That Night, two more have died, one has gone into hospice for pancreatic cancer, and still another abandoned all hope for freedom at a newly delivered death sentence. Just in my little world.
Trying really hard to breathe, to will my heart to slow and heal.
Six weeks and four hours.