DEARMAIZIE

Sending texts to my husband is an unexpected comfort.

His phone still sits on the kitchen desk fully charged. Like most olds, he was conscientious about keeping it charged – just in case an urgent call for a domino game came in, or a football text from a grandson required affirmation of how pitiful the team was today.

I send a text at night and read it the next morning when I go into the kitchen. Hard to explain, but it feels like he’s been there and read it and if I look over he’ll be standing there stirring his coffee.

“The worm moon is sure pretty tonight. It’s shining in thru the kitchen window. Hope you have a good view. Wish you were here. 💔💔💔”

Grief is surreal.