My husband is long dead. I am well past the shock that I will never see him again. But some days I miss him somewhere inside of me where it is usually quiet. I miss that he knew how to deal with me, a woman.
Yes, he could clean gutters and plant bushes and take out the trash. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the times when I’m having a conniption fit about burning the potatoes or losing my glasses – times when he would say something to make me laugh and get over my fit. Times when I had a falling out with my daughter and couldn’t seem to fix it and he held me close. Times when I looked up through the skylight at a moon so beautiful it struck me silent, and he stood by me and let me be quiet. And that time when we went outside the Golden Nugget in Atlantic City into the pouring rain and he ran for the car without a thought for me trying to run behind him and he hugged my wet weeping body and never did anything like that again.
Then there were my “OMG what are we going to do now” days. When we got off the ship and there wasn’t a taxi in sight to take us to the airport in time to catch our flight home. Or we got to Jersey and I had forgotten the lovely yellow candle wreath for his aunt and uncle. Or the time I bought myself a hot dog with sauerkraut in New York City and immediately got sick and threw up on the sidewalk right in front of people. All this stuff rolled off him like frosting off a hot donut. He just took my hand in his and we went on with life.
There were many times when I looked at him and said to God - 'Thank You God that he is mine.”
Wherever he is, I hope he can read this, because I want to give him a shout-out – “Hi, Wes, I am remembering you today!”
© 2015 Just Lynne - 10/18/15