Jack felt a soft vibration move through the bed and knew his wife was crying again. She laid with her back to him, but the moonlight silhouetted her small, shuddering shoulders. It’d been the same each night for the last few weeks.
He wanted to pull her close and tell her how much he loved her, but he knew those words would get lost somewhere between the moonlight and shadows. Some things just couldn’t be undone.
She pulled something out of the nightstand beside her, but it was too dark for him to make out what it was. Curious, he went to her side of the bed and knelt in front of her.
In one hand she held a photo of them with goofy grins and covered in flour. They’d taken it a week before his accident. Their last photo together. In her other hand was his wedding band secured to the white gold chain he’d bought her for their fifth anniversary. She brought it to her lips and whispered, “I miss you so much.”
And with those words he became the moonlight that fell on her shoulder, the soft July breeze from the open window that moved through her hair and whispered I miss you too.
Jennifer Fox is a western New York native and MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. She is a staff reader for Thirty West Publishing House and Bandit Fiction. Her work has appeared in Across the Margin, The Daily Drunk Mag, The Write Launch, Disquiet Arts, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Twitter:@jennfoxwriter