By Nancy Burall
“Just four weeks ago, Nancy.” My cousin Pattie wiped tears away. “He was just diagnosed with cancer four weeks ago. And now Bob’s gone.” We were seated at their dining table. “Tomorrow would have been his sixty-sixth birthday. Monday is my sixtieth birthday. I can’t believe his funeral is today.”
A few weeks later, Pattie shared her heartache in view of the “firsts” she would be facing in the remaining months of the year.
Their anniversary spent alone, one month after Bob’s passing; the pain of a vanished celebration of their love. “The nights are the worst.” She set down her coffee cup. “The empty place where he should be is almost too painful to endure.”