The Chair

A warm breeze whispers against my face.    

I think of being at the ocean. Hope on the horizon, an expectant unknown beyond.

Today, peace finds me where Marc sat. Months ago, I perched on a stool in front of him, rubbing his legs, thick and stiff.

He was hopeful then. Or maybe I was too hopeful reading his face all wrong.  His quiet meant nothing or something.

A brave man, robed and scruffy.  He knew more than he would say.

I love him even more knowing that.

Four months ago today Marc drifted beyond the horizon.

Writing about him, about us, soothes my soul. He encouraged me to write. Always positive. I write for him and to untangle the ball of grief at my feet.