She said, “I still want to ask him questions. I keep thinking it’s going to get better, but there are still things I want to ask him.” On her face is evidence of holding back tears only makes them larger.
I want to say, Do it. Ask the air around you. Know he will answer and then search for ways he’s sending you a message.
Then I realize how psychotic I sound when I speak out loud.
Ask, I want to say but I don’t say anything. I don’t touch her hand or hug her. Though my mind is screaming at me to do all three things, I sit there in silence and feel her pain to the point it lasts another day.
Ask, I thought.
And today it rained.
And I know that the rain will remind her of things, though I don’t know what they are because if you shared what those two did me quantifying it would be impossible.
Today I am grateful to know she knows love greater than I have ever fantasized. I am grateful for my illusion that rain was the answer for all the questions she feels she can no longer ask.
(that if we look closely enough we will find our answers and those will be some type of relief in loss because somehow, someway he can still hear her ask)