when I’m near you, I remember how to breathe. That has to count for something.”
“Please. Just think about it.”
I considered his proposal for three weeks.
My son drove in from the city one Saturday solely to sit opposite me and speak plainly.
“You’re lonely, Mom. That is not the same as loving him.”
“I know the difference.”
My closest friend, Marlene, said nearly the same thing, though more gently, while we drank wine on her back porch.
“Grief wears a lot of masks, honey. Sometimes it wears a wedding ring.”
“He was her husband, Marlene. If I don’t take care of him, who will?”
I insisted that she could not understand.
Then I drove home through the darkness, sat on the edge of my bed, and cried without knowing exactly why.
Two months later, I accepted.
The courthouse was cramped, chilly, and carried the scent of aging paper.
I chose a navy dress because white seemed dishonest and black felt like an omen.
My hands shook endlessly.
Michael slipped the ring onto my finger and looked at me the way a drowning man might look at something keeping him afloat.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I signed the marriage license with unsteady fingers, never imagining that my sister’s ghost was already moving to save me.
For the first week, Michael behaved tenderly.
He cooked breakfast.
He used my name instead of hers.
Then he left for the store one morning, and everything shifted.
Clara’s photograph seemed to watch me from the hallway shelf.
A silver sedan turned into the driveway.
An elderly man emerged, holding a small wooden box tightly against his chest.
His suit was wrinkled, and his gray hair had thinned.
The moment he looked toward the porch, he stopped cold.
