Empty couch, hard to stomach
SUNDAY, November 8 – Jenn couldn’t stand the smell, while I love it. Clean the mackerel, add crispy toast (just short of burnt), melted butter, and plenty of salt. Yum. The three of us are having a great time and, as in the past, I look at the last bite, the bite traditionally reserved for her, and then into the living room where Jennifer should be sitting. I should be walking over to her now, to put that last bite into her mouth. The thought of having to eat that bite myself comes across like a punch in the solar plexus. It leaves me breathless. Literally.
23:00 – ‘A smile on my face. My dear son Sander just ironed a shirt for me,’ I twitter. Too many wrinkles, let me do it, he had said. A burst of uplifting energy, but only for that quick ironing job. For the rest of the evening Sander was inconsolable.
Diary of a Widower 