Cold Feet

by author

I watched Helen, my wife, my widow, drift through the house each day, like smoke wafting from an extinguished candle. I could relate. But what could I do? I was the ‘dearly departed’ whose passing sapped the juice from Helen’s life.

That’s right. What could I do? How do I explain my being here at all? Neither here nor there, in or out… A presence within the absence. It’s admittedly hard to describe.