|A photo I found of Rob.|
There's no logic to it. This evening I found myself expecting to see Rob, as if the last 19 months might be folded away and forgotten. A mistake. A do over.
Earlier this evening, I was putting away some tape and when I opened the cabinet the smell of Tiger Balm wafted through the air. The smell was so strong, so familiar. It has been a long, long time since I last smelled that spicy camphor and there it lingered, wrapping its clean scent around me--almost as if I had conjured my husband's arms. Each evening after dinner, Rob would rub a dab into each of his aching hands. A nightly ritual he would perform and then he and I would share tea.
Marriages are made of such ritual.
Later, I was cleaning out a drawer, uncovering much that needed to be thrown out and at the bottom I found a photo of Rob--one I don't recall having seen before. It seems that I might have lifted the camera and then called him by name. He looked up, having been reading and stared with a slight smile forming. And as I looked at it, I wondered how could someone so animated be dead? I imagine he's in his late 30s when the photo was taken and what we could not know was that more than half his life was over.
Logic is slippery. I know Rob is dead. I feel the weight of it every day. I know the earth turns, the moon cycles, and the universe continues to expand, but most days it feels as if none of this could be happening without him.