Gene

Carol had died the night before. It was expected, but still no easier on Gene.

“Sixty-three years, eight months and thirteen days,” Gene said in almost a whisper, “That’s how long ago I married that little girl.” He kept clasping and unclasping his hands.

“The strangest thing,” he continued, “I was in bed this morning. Didn’t want to get up. And I heard her like she was standing right there, ‘What are you doing, Gene? You can’t stay in bed all day!’ And she was standing in the doorway. Clear as day. Saw her again in her chair. It was her.”