It’s been six months now.

I don’t hear him calling for me any more. He’s not waiting for me to come home, to bring him meds or a book or something to drink.

I can donate his clothes. He’s not coming back. He won’t need sun shirts this summer.

Even though he couldn’t eat, I still cook for both of us, when I bother to cook at all. My freezer runneth over with single-serve containers.

He wasn’t going to get better. He wasn’t going to get better.

I know grief takes the time it takes. 

It’s been six months now.