I am in Paris for the weekend, what a decadent idea. It’s beautiful of course. Along with Bob and Jane, I have spent the last two days eating, walking, drinking, walking, eating, drinking, eating, drinking, walking. . . you get the picture. It’s been fun. We’ve laughed together, eaten some wonderful food, had some great wines. It’s good to know we can still do it—have fun, go away together, be happy.
They say that amputees still retain feeling in the limb they lose. Like having a phantom leg or arm that still demands to be scratched, I have a phantom husband whose voice talks to me everywhere I go. I walk the streets imagining what he’d be doing—listening patiently as I read to him from my Michelin, being ridiculous with every waiter and salesperson we meet. When I look at the menu in a restaurant, I know exactly what he would order—foie gras and steak and frites, despite my nagging.
Is there anywhere in the world where I won't hear his voice or see his face.
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2 comments:
that would be a resounding NO
I'm so overwhelmed from your perceptions that I can hardly finish as it brings tears to my eyes. The whole world of death is too strange for me to deal with...too much void...too much absence...too much finality. It's as if, why did we have to know this person in the first place...if it's taken away?
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