It's been more than a year since you rolled from our bed complaining of a headache
and pretty much died right there on a carpet we'd bought together. The ambulance arrived in due course.
That was you next: the worst you ever.
I didn't know what to do after you left.
Pay bills. Keep systems running. Moving forward seemed wrong but must do. Maybe just lonely.
The world used to be proms and graduations and children and fitting in and marriage and living together.
Maybe.
You never felt you fit in; proud of it! Me neither; not proud. Deliriously happy to share your misfit.
We had each other for 37 years.