Five thirty. My half hour begins now. I lean toward the bedside table and rummage through the drawer. I find the handmade leather clutch holding the letters Tim wrote me starting when we were five. Clasping the clutch, I bring it to my chest. Pain slithers through my heart and sorrow grips my soul, squeezing it tight. Pain or void usually fills my lonely moments. I prefer pain. It makes me feel alive.Tears burn my eyes. How can I be forgetting his face? I can’t lose him all over again. But every day our memories become hazier. My trembling fingers unravel the lace and I pull out one of the letters he wrote me. I can’t betray Tim by forgetting him, letting him go. It will be as if he never existed. Worse, his sacrifice will be mute, in vain.Tim had the most clear and charming smile. I’ll never like a smile as much as I loved his. Why then did my insides melt when Tarry smiled at Ella?It’s been a few days since I saw Tarry, but his hollowed eyes chase me.I wipe away my tears, smooth the crumpled paper, and reread the letter: My beloved wife,I write this as I watch you sleep.
