The first days after that memorial day were for me (and I am
sure for Paul) terror filled and hope laden. He confined to a hospital room—me alone
in our rural home whose maintenance took no notice of his absence or the need to wait for his
return.
Grass grew. I mowed. Weeds attacked the tomato and pepper plants. Deer
finished what the weeds spared. Eating alone after fifty years of sharing mealtime left my soul hungry no matter what I ate.
Monday through Friday I gave it my best effort.
But come Saturday I left behind all efforts to keep the
place going. I left behind missing him. I set out with deli sandwiches for lunch, sausage biscuits and my canned tomato juice for breakfast,
the Scrabble Game for our usual Saturday night battle, and a change of underwear.
Twenty four hours together before I came home where I spent another week of handling home alone and he the week battling for his life.
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