Fill in your own blanks on those two. My puzzle's full.
Here: Dear though left-behind clumsy through-NO [really]-fault-of-your-own-spouse-mates like me:
... here's a SOUR advisory to suck on.
Once your (my) devastating beloved passed, her flesh simmers off, her bones bubble to the surface and they too pass, you'll maybe wish that you had NOT rolled your eyes in certain constrained company, signaling a colleague, pal o' mine.
If ... she wants to tell the same family story a dozen times, chip in.
If ... she wants to establish a family legend, yes, yes, yes, yes! Whose ears care, who cares?!? You've heard it so many times it would peel paint from the Fifties.... You've heard it across 5 generations, sober and disappointed. So FUCKING what?
My advice:
Don a masque. Then firmly shut up.
Because that's your best contribution to her/his/their story. By far: shut up ... or splurge. Save everything you want to say for after.
Something happens. It takes a while.
Your job my dear reader is to be — in your true love's life — that while.
Welcome. It's hard.
Silence comes slowly. Don't look to me for guidance. Can't tell much of a story. I'm the anointed weakling, with Simone in so many dressing rooms; equipped with a pen and a handy notebook. Observing with respect. I'd become "Her Tommy." She'd spin in and out. I'd admire & declare; we'd dream ... over and over and over and over.
My memories fade too.
Astonishing Grand Canyon-deep regrets when Simone stepped finally off-stage.
Intubated. YES!
Oxygen driven down her throat.
I said no. stop No more.
Deceased within three days.
I am the piece of shit who pulled Simone's plug
We'd agreed of course so often on so many hikes