In the Quiet After

 

The house has never been so quiet. The kettle hums in the background, and I half expect your hand to touch the small of my back as you sneak a biscuit from the tin. But you're not here anymore.

You were my beginning, you know. High school sweethearts—what a phrase, so quaint, so true. I still remember that shy smile when you stood at our front door, hair combed, nerves visible beneath your pressed suit. Navy blue, if I recall correctly, with your grandfather’s cufflinks. I wore the pale pink dress I’d spent weeks sewing, with lace at the collar and a little ribbon around my waist. My father glowered behind me, arms crossed, giving you that stare—“Ten o'clock, son. Not a minute later, or else.” You swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir,” then offered your arm like I was royalty.

You always treated me that way.

We built a life from next to nothing, but what we had overflowed with love. I remember the birth of our middle child—my body trembling, complications pressing down on us—and there you were, holding my hand like a rock in a storm. Calm, strong, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you.” And you did. Every time.

When money slipped through our fingers and the lights threatened to go out, you sold your beloved car collection. I wept—not for the cars, but for the quiet, noble sacrifice. You brushed it off like it was nothing, but I saw your heart in that decision.

You always made me feel cherished. Even when that new neighbor cast her eyes toward you, you didn’t pretend not to notice. You just took my hand and walked me straight to her, introducing me as your wife, the love of your life. How fiercely I loved you for that.

And oh, how we laughed—especially when I broke down changing a tire on that road trip. Oil on my blouse, map upside down, me cursing softly under my breath. You crouched beside me and said, “If you’re going to drive, my love, you ought to know how to change a wheel.” You showed me patiently, even though I was fuming. And you were right—again.

You were always right in the quiet, steady ways.

Now you’re gone, and the silence doesn’t hum—it howls. But you left me with everything I need to carry on. The children you helped raise, the lessons you whispered in the dark, the strength you drew out of me like water from a well.

It will be difficult. It will be lonely. But because of you, I know I can do it. And every time I boil the kettle or fumble with a map, I’ll smile, knowing some part of you is still guiding me.

You were my compass, my anchor, my joy. I will love you quietly, always—until the stars burn out and time forgets our names.

And even then.