When my husband died and then my child, the part of me that manufactured love dried up.
It was the same for him, or so he said, at the grief support group and on long walks down narrow paths through decaying foliage. I felt comfortable with him, and he with me—no demands for something we didn’t have to give. Time was all we had to share, so we did.
Winter snow and frigid winds closed the walking paths, so we went inside. Puzzles, books, old movies, crackling fires. I felt moments of contentment, and so did he, or so he said.
A baker of homemade breads, his rye complimented my mother’s Irish stew. My husband’s chili recipe paired perfectly with the sourdough his wife had so adored. We shared meals and then a bed. Our grief mingled, and we carried it together, lighter somehow.
When spring arrived we went outdoors and walked the same paths where decayed foliage nourished new life to full bloom.