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Pain turns to anger. Anger at him for leaving me. If he had just gotten in the car that night and left it alone, he would still be here with me right now. Anger at myself for not stopping it. Four years of nursing school, and I couldn’t save the man I love.
He gave me permission to tell him no, don’t do it. All it would have taken was one word from me and we wouldn’t have even been in that car to begin with.
I let out a frustrated scream into the pillow.
Then I cry.
Then I lie in complete silence, missing him, willing him to come back. For almost a year after he died, it was easy for me to pretend he was just gone again with the Marines. Now reality has set in, and I know he’s not coming back. He won’t be surprising me at work or sneaking up on me when I get out of the shower. He’s gone. And I’m still here.
I pull his letter from the nightstand and read it for the thousandth time.
“Get up. Get dressed. And live your life. Don’t let both of us die out here.”
If he only knew how much he’s asking.
