My husband and I used to write little messages on sticky notes and hide them around the house. “I love you” in the dresser. “Good luck at work” on the bathroom mirror. I gave each note a quick kiss before crumpling them up and tossing them in the trash. There’d always be more tomorrow.
A month before our sixth anniversary, my husband fell from a thirty-foot ladder. A spiderweb chiseled his x-rayed skull. Now he gurgles and swings his arms in aimless circles as I dress him for bed. Eyes glazed and vacant. I wish I had kept those notes.
A month before our sixth anniversary, my husband fell from a thirty-foot ladder. A spiderweb chiseled his x-rayed skull. Now he gurgles and swings his arms in aimless circles as I dress him for bed. Eyes glazed and vacant. I wish I had kept those notes.
