night to the echo

fee mug on the counter, her shoes by the door, her scarf dan

rway, unsure whether I shou

day, pulling me through motions I barely understo

and "thank yo

ow of our home, there

behind whispered the truth:

pent lazy Sunday mornings, her legs tangled with min

ed to fill the spaces between my words. The silence now was so

up, my hand trembling slightly, and turned on the TV - noi

laughter absurd against the backdrop of my grie

kering

ense o

exhibit curated in her absence. In the bedroom,

just gotten up to fetch a glass of water and would be back

lly, almost reverently, and placed it back where it belonged, u

with my fingertip, memorizing the loops and curves. She always wrote in little hearts instead of dots over her i's. It used to a

ack in the l

er scarf i

to my face, willing it to bring her back. I thought if I just concentrated hard enough, I

est. For a moment, hope flared - a wild, irrational hope - but it guttered just as

eyes, red-rimmed and tired, met mine with a kind of quiet desperation. He didn't say any

ou know," he said, voice

first time all night, the house didn't seem quite so cavernous. He placed the pizza and be

k me how I was. He didn't offer condolences or empty words. He just sat there, ancho

ty show was on now, a parade of strangers doing ridiculous things for attenti

at me, just a small, sad twit

ccumulated on the table. Eventually, he dozed off, his head tipped back agai

o be scaled or a wound to be closed. It was a room I would live in now, and someti

uch, my eyes heavy. Around me, the echoes of her absence sof