Is it weird that I expect to find a suicide note? (No, she didn’t kill herself.)
As I go through the files on her computer — I’m paying bills, so I’m using the laptop that has Quickbooks — I keep thinking, hoping I’ll see a file titled “Doug.” The text will begin, “If you’re reading this, I’m dead . . .”
No, I guess it isn’t weird that I would hope for some communication not-exactly-from-beyond-the-grave. I wish we had talked more. I wish we had talked more back when it would have meant something. I keep thinking I will never take a lover for granted again. Why must we fall into these ruts, where we ignore one another . . . and somehow that’s okay?