My wife is still a beautiful woman. She’s bald and wears hospital gowns, but she’s a dove. Every night, she asks me to open the window to watch the stars. She tells me to look at those little lights when sorrow comes or my longing deepens. The week after she died, I sell our house and rent a small apartment near her cemetery, but I don’t sleep there at night. I drive to the nearest woods and bring my camping tent to the open space. And before I sleep, I watch the stars and think she’s just here with me.
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