“It was a rather exclusive club she’d joined–women who had famous husbands gunned down in front of them. Almost every one of those women reached out to her, and she appreciated them for that.
In the weeks after his death, she found she couldn’t bear the company of anyone who hadn’t been with them that night. She was grateful for people who didn’t make her talk about it. Those who’d been with the two of them on the worst night of her life already knew with all five senses what she knew, even if their hearts didn’t suffer in the same way hers did.
His best friend spent hours with her most nights. She was sure in time people would draw the worst conclusions about that. It was human nature. But what they did was sit across from each other at the table and play separate games of solitaire, one game after the other. They rarely talked about anything important. He’d never been much of a talker anyway. The smell of the cards, the sound of the shuffling: They couldn’t make her forget, but they did keep her breathing.
Frequently since that night, she feared she would forget how to breathe.”
I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.