Now the rooms feel bigger.
The bed feels colder.
I still make two cups of coffee some mornings before I remember she isn’t coming down the hall.
Last Thursday, I took the bus to Walmart for groceries. Canned soup, bread, bananas, and half-and-half, the brand Ellen liked. I don’t even use cream, but habits hang on tighter than people do.
When I stepped outside, the wind hit me like a knife. One of those Midwest gusts that makes your eyes water and your joints swear at you.
Her lips were starting to turn blue.
I was squinting against the cold when I saw her.
A young woman stood near a light pole, clutching a baby against her chest. No car, no stroller, no bags. Just her and the wind.
She wore only a thin sweater, hair whipping around her face. The baby was wrapped in a threadbare towel that looked more like something from a kitchen drawer than a nursery.
Her knees shook. Her lips were starting to turn blue.
