She traced the outline of his portrait, again and again, in an attempt to prevent him from disappearing completely. He had died suddenly from a common illness that the doctors had not detected. The autopsy made it clear that the doctors had failed him – and her. A simple blood test and he would have been fine. He would have been in her arms instead of having his final rest in a grave.
She had clammed up after his death. People tried to make her talk about it; they said it would make her feel better, whereas in fact the only thing that would make her feel better was to have him still alive. Still warm. There was no way she could put her grief into words. It was too immense. They had loved each other to bits; they had been completely perfect for one another. How could that loss be described? She was a black hole that sucked in every sorrow of the world to keep her own grief company.
She traced the outline of his portrait. There were not traces of him left. Her friends and family had made her get rid of his belongings. They said it would help. That she would miss him less that way. How could she ever miss him less? He who had made her whole in a wounded world. It was impossible. His portrait was the only thing that was left of him. She talked to his portrait every day, and she still waited for an answer.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Trace