Talk

Recent widows talk a lot or not at all.  When we talk we talk about the pain.  We talk about the empty feeling in our gut that just won't go away.  We talk about how we fill the loneliness and how we cope with the brain fog.  We begin to talk about our cats and dogs with such love and animation, stories about them rival tall husband tales.

"Oooh, I am devoted to you.  I love you so." looking into his brown eyes I coo.  He was silent, but suddenly without warning leaping legs landed on my chest.  His tail wagged, zigging and zagging the third back end of his body.  Rex loves me.

My feet, two little ice cubes most winter nights, I would start with my big toe and run it up and down my husband's legs, just to acclimate him to what was to come.  He was a perpetual furnace willing to keep me warm.  I never slept well unless I began by draping my arm across his torso, our bodies melting into the other.  Warm. Together.

Now his body presses into mine.  He does not tolerate diving under the covers. I have tried.  Instead he sleeps on the top making the sheet, blankets and comforter taut, because of this my body is routinely held captive under the load of downy fluff as I try to roll over.  He is near.  Prone on his back, his legs splayed I rub his belly.  He smiles.  He actually smiles.  This becomes a pleasurable experience for both of us.  I am in love.

Sitting in my chair sipping my morning coffee, he is under my feet.  Always close. Never far.  My first and last kisses of each day come from the one with brown eyes and a cold moist nose.

Recent widows talk a lot or not at all.  We talk about pain.  We talk about our dogs or our cats.  They fill the loneliness.