My husband died two years and seven months ago. We were only married for two years and two months, and didn’t live together before the wedding. So that means that I’ve spent more nights as a widow than I ever did as a married woman. I’ve spent more nights alone than I ever did with my husband.
My mind has gotten used to the fact that I wake up without him.
But sometimes, in the fuzzy haze that happens between waking and sleeping, my body forgets. My leg reaches over to hook itself around his. It wants to slide up beside him, rest my cheek against the cool skin of his shoulder.
When my leg finds nothing but an expanse of cold sheets, my body and mind finally communicate with each other. This is not a fun way to start the day.
But, for the first time, I’m beginning to enjoy the sweetness of remembering what it felt like to be with him, not only the sadness that he’s no longer here.