Steve’s been dead for two years.
Sally hasn’t moved on. She buried him in her heart.
She sold his clothes, boat, and power tools. Thinking that would help.
She went on a couple of dates. Thinking it would help.
She moved into a new place. Thinking it would help.
She changed her hair color and her nails, too. Thinking it would help.
She talked to a grief counselor. Thinking it would help.
Nothing helped, Sally.
Bathed in his aftershave, she paces and sobs into the ceiling. Grief grabs her ankles and drags her under the bed. It pitches her against the wall. It assaults her daily. Often in her sleep. He’s animated, Steve is, in her dreams. His pillow is warm when she turns to it, but she’s climbing out of her hallucination too soon. His pillow is a stone when her eyes open for real, and she reaches, hoping.
Sally is out with her friends, pretending.
Her phone rings, and it goes to voicemail.
She listens to the message later that night.
“Hi, honey, it’s Steve. I’m in the mirror.”
Sally now sees Steve every morning.
She mentions that fact to no one.
They do notice, though, how happy she’s become.
That makes them content and distant.
Sally had a yard sale a couple of weeks ago.
Sold everything.
Kept the mirror and his aftershave.