Every morning Alison dies. I find a note to myself. It rests on the pillow, where her head rested for forty six years, and when I open it and read the words she left for me I weep.
I served for my country, kept my body healthy, active. Not a day over sixty and I can still do my crunches. God took my mind instead. He took everything I held precious and cast it into the void.
The simple things are hard now. I forget. Sometimes I’ll do the same thing over and over. I still make two teas in the morning, no sugar, lots of milk for her, and then I take them upstairs, while she’s still sleeping, and she dies again.
I’ve lost my children. They visit me. Often. Infrequently. I can’t tell. The oldest, he mutters, cleaning things up, sorting the bills. I hate him for treating me like an infant and he goes, angrily, but then I forget why we’re angry and he won’t call back. Mia cries. So much like her mother.
I miss you Alison.
Prompt originally posted by Zspritee on reddit and received 5 upvotes.