At the end, Mike was unable to eat, bedridden, completely dependent on me. His hospital bed was in the guest room. I slept lightly, at the opposite end of the house, listening for him, always available. 

He continued to call for me in the days and weeks after he died. Or so I thought. I was sad and unnerved when I realized he was gone, and that I’d only imagined hearing his voice.

My therapist recommended Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. Reading it was healing. Life is not better now. But it’s different. Tolerable. 

And often … too quiet.