I couldn't bear the thought of going to bed. The bed would be lonely Besides I'd toss and turn not getting any sleep as I thought about her and the fact that she wasn't there. The thought was hard for me to wrap my head around. I hated the thought and I wished it would go away. I shook off the feeling as best I could and slouched back into the recliner closing my eyes. I was tired, emotionally drained an beside myself in my own quiet grief. The silence was still there, how could it not be. As I sat there in it, I honed in on the sound of my own blood pressure ringing in my ears. ocassionally drifting in awareness between it and my breathing; The clock still ever so mockingly ticking away the length of my loneliness. It was four thirty in the morning. Time seemed to slow as if basking in my sorrows was to become my lot in life. The thought of all I had to do this day aggravated me. There's not a person I've ever met that has lost someone they love that liked having to plan a funeral, call friends and family and organize the meeting of the inevitable of saying goodbye to them forever. I hated the thought. Besides most of them I haven't seen in some time and it seems the only time we do meet up and chat about life is when someone dies. It's funny, someone has to die before anyone has the time to see you. Seems like it should be the other way around. See me while I'm here, Not when I'm being put in the dirt. What do I care then?! I can still smell her sweet scent wafting through the house. Strangely, it brings me a sense of comfort. It also hurts to know that that's all there will ever be from here on out. That and the memories. Memories some will stay and over time some will fade but I'll try to hold onto them for as long as I can. There's a laundry basket sitting beside the sofa. Its filled with clorhes she folded the day before. I can see her folding them neatly and placing them back in the basket to carry to their place and put them away. I suppose I could do it but she didn't like me doing it. That was her thing. She was organized and everything had its place and she placed them a certain way.. Me? I would just shove them in the drawers and cabinets and be done. Not her, She was meticulous in the way she did things. Same with the dishes. I'd wash them, let them air-dry and put them away. She would always go back in and put them how she wanted them. She never said a word to me about it though. I don't think she got angry with me about it either. She was just happy I tried to help. It was the same for me whenever I worked on the cars. She would help hand me tools and whatever else I needed. She would chime in every once in a while with a question about what particular part I was working on and what its function was. I'm sure she would have rather done something else but she stayed and helped till I was done; besides I liked having her there, and I think she knew it too. I couldn't muster the strength to get up and start putting the laundry away. That was her job. The basket stayed right where she left it. I was okay with that. Eventually though, I would have to put them away. I looked up from the basket to the table and saw her thin framed reading glasses folded and resting on a book she'd been reading. it was a new book by Stephen King titled (Holly). I'm an avid reader of his books and got her into liking his books after I told her she needed to read (The Stand). I remember she liked the mini-series when it appeared on TV back on Mother's Day in 1994 and ever since, she's had one of his books in her hands. I can't help but see her sitting there engrossed in her book occasionally glancing over at me asking if I needed anything. I'd say "No, I'm fine" then get up to make me a sandwich or grab a drink. She'd say "I thought you said you were fine?" I'd reply "I am" and she'd just shake her head and smile. I started to cry again. I started thinking about the little moments, those little nuances I would never have with her again. I closed my eyes and could see her. I could see her as she was in that moment of sweet recollection. I smiled and drifted off to sleep.

© Brian C. Jobe