There was a pair of shoes at Nordstrom’s last week that Dave would have loved, but I didn’t buy them because I couldn’t remember his shoe size.
And, obviously, also because dead men do not need shoes.
Today he’s been gone for 1000 days.
That’s a big number. Four digits, even. But it hardly seems like enough time to start forgetting things.
I’m not a desperate person by nature, but I felt as if I started to drown a bit in that store. I began to remember every little thing about him, trying to grip the little grains of memory, praying that the effort didn’t let them slip through my fingers.
But it’s as an inevitable as death.
Life slips by.
I want to say my late husband wore a nine and a half, but I’m not sure. I didn’t get to keep any of his things.
He was particular…
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