You wake and think, I’m doing fine. Really good even. Then a letter comes, something to do with the property. Its a fairly simple thing but… it stops you into that familiar place, you can’t move out of. Everything becomes difficult, a chore, monumental.
I want my days to all be nights so I may lie under the feathers and sleep.
To sleep and not think, not feel.
I walk down the isles of clothing and run my fingers over the tops of the sweaters.
I’m looking for his sweater.
That Italian fine knit crew neck sweater he wore when I first saw him and fell hopelessly in love.
You can fall in love in an instant.
Your heart swells so much that you can barley take a full breathe.
You can feel your cheeks heating.
Then a wave rising up your head till you can feel the little electric charges going off and your hearing diminishes.
Your mind floats in a daze of love in the open fields with the warm wind fondling your skin.
Lying next to him you can see the sun’s rays creating a glimmer on his damp chest.
I kiss his shoulder and lick my lips, tasting him.
He smells so lovely and unlike any other.
I take deep breaths of him, wanting to inhale him to devour him.
The day before he crossed over as I laid next to him, I placed my face in his hand and breathed him in. I could still smell him.
When he died and I kissed him, his fragrance was no longer. He was gone.
I know his fragrance and I will recognize it when we meet up.
As my computer slowly fills with my images I realize that there will never be new folders of his current creations. Bruce gave me and the world a lot of himself and his creative visions.
My heart longs for him, misses him greatly.
Widowed Without A Manual 