She DiedPosted: November 19, 2015
They found the brain tumor shortly before her 32 birthday and she died before her 33rd. He mourned. He was angry. Angry with her for dying. Angry at the doctors and chemo and everything they had done to save her. None of it mattered. He was angry with her for dying.
They had been together for eight years. They had a son. She left them alone. Alone. Alone to deal with the world. Sadness. Life went on and she wouldn’t be there, ever again.
He avoided dealing with her “stuff.” Her closet was still full of clothes and shoes. That dress that was “too small” but he loved. Shoes that were “impossible to walk in” but incited his libido.
And, in the back of her closet, were her journals.
During the time they were married he never would have considered reading her journals. They were her private thoughts. Her dreams. Her fears. They were the “real” her.
But now she was dead. The word destroyed him. Never again. Never again would they have anything. Not good nor bad. Just never.
Never plagued him.
After months, he was ready. Ready to read her private thoughts. More than ready. He wanted to know her most intimate thoughts. He wanted to know how she really felt – about him, about their son.
So he read.
He started at the beginning. She was 17. Crushes on boys. Fears about her future. Concerns about algebra.
He skipped to their relationship. “Does he really like me?” “What is he thinking?” Then, “he said he loves me” and “he proposed!”
He cried. He missed her. He wanted to join her, but their son…
Finally, he skipped to her last entries:
“I know you will read this. I loved you always. I will love you and Stephan always. I may be gone, but you will go on and you two will be the me I always wanted to be.”