Sometimes, I look at my love for my husband, and I feel a little like the lady in "A Rose For Emily." I am keeping his body in my bed even though the man himself is gone. There are glimmers of him still there, but maybe that's just me fantasizing. Maybe there's nothing left.
I love him. I know that...it's just such a sad, sick-seeming love sometimes. He's all Frankensteined together from the original parts, and his head is such a mess. I wonder if he'll ever be himself again.
Last week I was looking at some old pictures. There was one of him I found when we'd gone on a work trip together. He was so excited about his job. I was so excited about mine. We were both so happy. He looked so handsome, and he was holding our dog. She was still a little puppy. It was a different time, a different place in both of our lives. I was so hopelessly in love with him, so hopelessly lost to myself. I do miss feeling that way, in some ways. I'm healthier, stronger now...but I miss that hopeless passion for him. I miss the feeling of rushing home to be with him. I miss the man that he was, that I thought he was, or that I thought he could become.
Photo Credit: Create
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