With a sigh she sits down at last, in his chair, covered in a plaid that doesn’t match anything else in their living room. The chair that despite her protests he insisted on getting, and she insisted on nicknaming Sore Thumb. She is depleted, but proud. Somehow, she has survived. Another day without him.
Her eyes trace handwritten pages. Easy to smudge ink on pieces of fragile onionskin paper. His words. Him.
And against her better judgment, tears.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she spoons her body into the comforting curves of softness, of the plaid that never will match anything else in their living room. A sore thumb. A constant reminder of him.
She is grateful.