And When You Leave Me

And when you leave me...

I was raised to get my house in order at the end of the year.
Dust from top to bottom.
Wash your windows clockwise with vinegar and the hottest water you can stand.
Sweep on your left side, never your right.
Dump your bucket in the gutter, so it can't water any roots.
Leave all that baggage behind.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm doing my duty, but my heart's not in it, because I lost it a year ago. Ever since my husband died, I've just been hanging on by a thread - clutching at the memory of the man I love with everything I have.

But after my grandmother sends me a sachet of herbs for my bath, with strict instructions to let this year wash down the drain - even my grief - I start having the wildest dreams.

Dreams of the night we met.
Dreams of my husband beside me.
Dreams of a future we never got to live.
Dreams that make me wonder if my lost love is really so far gone.

I'll love you still.

Content Warnings

Terminal illness

Death

Grief