He used to lay here on the left side of the bed. He used to snore so loud I couldn’t get any sleep. Sometimes he would laugh in his sleep, not a big laugh just cute little giggles. I always wondered what he was dreaming, if I was in those dreams. He would wake up before me, he’d get dressed and by the time I awoke it would be to the smell of breakfast streaming up the stairs. Pancakes, he made the best pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries. After we ate we’d sit there quietly he’d read his paper and I would read the comics. We were content like this.
He doesn’t sleep there now, all there is on the left side of the bed is the imprint of what used to be. It’s quiet now, almost too quiet. No snoring, no laughing, just the quiet, and yet I still can’t sleep. In the morning I get up early, no fancy breakfast, just a pop tart if I really make an effort.it’s amazing how things change when you’re alone, I don’t ready the comics or even look at the paper, too many memories held in them.
I’ve learned to go on day by day, pretending I’m doing okay but the silence gets to me a little more each day. This house isn’t a home now that he’s gone. Instead what I’m left with is rooms filled with memories I can’t escape. And no matter how many times I wish for it, he will never walk through that door again.