Sometimes, I look at my love for my husband, and I feel a little like the lady in "A Rose For Emily." I am keeping his body in my bed even though the man himself is gone. There are glimmers of him still there, but maybe that's just me fantasizing. Maybe there's nothing left.I love him. I know that...it's just such a sad, sick-seeming love sometimes. He's all Frankensteined together from the original parts, and his head is such a mess. I wonder if he'll ever be himself again.
Last week I was looking at some old pictures. There was one of him I found when we'd gone on a work trip together. He was so excited about his job. I was so excited about mine. We were both so happy. He looked so handsome, and he was holding our dog. She was still a little puppy. It was a different time, a different place in both of our lives. I was so hopelessly in love with him, so hopelessly lost to myself. I do miss feeling that way, in some ways. I'm healthier, stronger now...but I miss that hopeless passion for him. I miss the feeling of rushing home to be with him. I miss the man that he was, that I thought he was, or that I thought he could become.
Photo Credit: Create
