He sat alone at the table, palms pressed together like hands praying, shoulders hunched, and chin resting on the tips of his fingers. He stared into space a million galaxies away. Together since kids, bonded in marriage, and hammered in trial, we faced grief like two strangers on a separate road.
In that poignant poise, I saw crevices in the map of his face I’d missed before, blinded by building cataracts of sorrow in my own eyes.
“He’s suffering too,” I thought, and like an opening door, what hid behind came into view.
In my hugging gut-grief, I overlooked the anguish in his. I neglected our oneness.
Equilibrium sought to right itself during…
Reply