"Somtimes goodbye is a second chance."
I inched my way through the house and tried to imagine life without Mark. Impossible. Wherever I looked, his residue was there. His imprint on the brown Barcalounger. Cigar stubs in the ashtray. Dollops of shaving cream and stubble hesitating near the bathroom drain. His bathrobe. That belt. Toothpicks. And to the right, the door to his den.
I touched the doorknob, wondering if it would hold me hostage. I tried it. Locked, as usual. I turned away then remembered - no Mark. Mark was now buried six feet under wet, red, rocky, wormy dirt. Not deep enough to suit me but they say there are rules.
I realized I could open that door. After all these years I was perfectly free to open that door.
I inched my way through the house and tried to imagine life without Mark. Impossible. Wherever I looked, his residue was there. His imprint on the brown Barcalounger. Cigar stubs in the ashtray. Dollops of shaving cream and stubble hesitating near the bathroom drain. His bathrobe. That belt. Toothpicks. And to the right, the door to his den.
I touched the doorknob, wondering if it would hold me hostage. I tried it. Locked, as usual. I turned away then remembered - no Mark. Mark was now buried six feet under wet, red, rocky, wormy dirt. Not deep enough to suit me but they say there are rules.
I realized I could open that door. After all these years I was perfectly free to open that door.
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