Called Norma, this morning, so each of us would know the other was OK. We both live alone, now.
Wrote checks for bills and made sure to write some for my wife, Judy's, favorites charities.
Drove off to the post office, to the gas station to fill up, to the distributor for some beer, to the bank, and then to the grocery store.
Four trips from the car to the house to unload.
On the last trip I noticed, dark and rainy day though it was, that the ornamental pear tree in the front yard is just beginning to bloom.
I thought I would tell Judy, who would smile; she always took pleasure in the small beauties of life.
But before even completing the thought, which of course made me smile, too, I recalled she passed in late February, on the 21st, a week to the day after coming home.
There were so many things we shared, so many things we told each other of to be happy together, that things like this are always happening.
On the drive up to the bank, for example, since it's the same road, I though of driving out to the SNF she was at to see her as I did before she came home on Valentine's Day.
I would drive out every day and park in the lot and walk in to find her in her wheelchair somewhere, or at the therapists', or waiting for me in the dining room or in her own room, where we would smile and say hi, and hug and tell each other we loved each other.
And at the traffic signal, waiting to make a left to head for the bank and not the SNF, my eves got all wet and I told her in my heart I missed her desperately.
As I am telling her, wet eyed, right now.
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