Twelve Years Later: How Widowhood Really Feels

by Michele Buchanan

I remember everything, or at least the things that matter. I remember every pore of his skin, the encysted bump he had on the back of his head, the way he looked like a droll rabbi when he steepled his fingers. I remember the smell of his skin. I remember the lopsided grin he’d get, so wolfish and calculating and triumphant, when he’d won an argument.

I remember the weary look he’d get when we argued. I’d insist on staying up half the night so we wouldn’t go to bed angry. I remember the feel of his arms around me when I had my period,when I’d cry, and he’d bring me hot water bottles. I remember his laugh, his anger, his joy.

I remember how his colorblindness led to some odd clothing choices. I remember him growing a bit heavier on my cooking, and liking it. I remember the plans we made, the places we went and what it was like to be mistaken for his mistress, or a maid, because we were different colors. I remember asking him to marry me, and I remember how, after spending years of saying no, he turned to me out of the blue and casually proposed.

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