Day after day, I grow older and become weaker. I feel myself slipping away, but not enough. I’m not there yet, but I want to be.  I want to be on the other side, where she is, where we can be together. Without her, minutes began to feel like hours. All I could do was think of her and miss the little things; the little things I didn’t notice until she was gone. Like the way she would hum while folding the laundry, so innocent and sweet.  I never felt alone, even when I was.  I knew she was here and that she would come back to me. Until the day she didn’t.

She was always home by three, she was never late, not once. I stood at the door and waited for her to come home. I always greeted her at the door, like a gentleman should. However, three o’clock turned into six o’clock and six o’clock turned to eight o’clock. I still stood there at the door, just waiting for her to arrive, but she never did.
They told me she’d been in an accident; they took her away from me. She only went to the library, just a mile from our home and she’d been killed. By an adolescent who only cared about himself. He was fine, I did check. I knew she would’ve wanted me to; I only did it for her. Although the anger I felt for him grew as I got to know him. Reckless; he was checking what they call “Twitter.” He was foolish, and my wife paid for it. The woman who offered so much to this world was taken by an ignorant child.
She used to be so immersed in her books and never made a sound. I often had to call her name multiple times until she came to her senses. But that’s what I loved about her, she fell in love with the things she couldn’t see. Stacks of books still lay in our once cozy home, now filled only with guilt and pain. I was supposed to go with her that day, she wanted to bring me, bring me to the place she loved the most. However, I felt no connection to the world she expressed. I just didn’t understand. “Maybe tomorrow honey, I’m tired today.” Those had been the last words I’d said to her. Not “I love you,” but a simple excuse.
Today I find myself in that library, trying to feel her, experience her final moments. Trying to feel what she felt, her love for reading; the characters, the plot, all of it. From dawn to dusk I sat at “her” table. Reading the books she raved about, the ones that made her laugh and even the ones that made her cry. I read them all. It’s not that I don’t have things to do, I do, but I want to be near her. I want my day to revolve around her, and this is the closest I can be until I’m there with her.