So for about eleven years, I’ve been telling you every detail of my day. I’d probe you about yours, but you’d mostly not want to talk about it during the 9-5 office years.
But I think women save up things to tell their husbands much more. So I’d save up funny things that happened, things that made me angry, cute things Audrey did most recently, and tell them all to you when you got home.
It was kind of obvious it drained you to listen to all that, but you did listen and you were always behind me. If a lady on the sidewalk was rude to me when I was passing by with Audrey in the stroller, you said she was probably fat and ugly. At night, we curled up on the bed and watched new videos or photos of Audrey that I’d taken that day.
So, now. Even in grief, I still have these kinds of things, though slightly different, to say to you. But suddenly you’re not here. So very suddenly, you are permanently gone.
Who will I talk to? Who will listen? Who will hear?