Mourning — Wife [cracked]

Right now, you are in a tiny boat in a hurricane. The waves are fifteen feet high, and you are sure you will drown. But slowly, over months and years, you learn to navigate the swells. The grief is still there. The storm still comes. But you will learn to hold your breath, dive under the biggest waves, and come up for air.

Then, the crowd leaves. The meals stop coming. The phone stops ringing. mourning wife

It isn’t the quiet of a lazy Sunday morning or the hush of a sleeping child. It is a loud silence. The absence of his keys on the counter. The missing second toothbrush. The side of the bed that still smells like him but no longer dips under his weight. Right now, you are in a tiny boat in a hurricane

You might find yourself talking to him. Out loud. In the car. In the shower. This is not crazy. This is a love that didn’t die just because his body did. The grief is still there

Keep breathing. One second at a time.

If you are reading this, and you are that woman—the one wearing the ring that feels too heavy, the one who just made coffee for one again—I am so sorry you are here.

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