A vase of dried lavender stood on the dining table.
Someone had placed a new pair of slippers beside the master bedroom door.
My size.
I picked them up.
And began to cry.
Not because the house was beautiful.
Because I suddenly saw evidence of Thomas everywhere.
The height of the kitchen countertops was exactly what I preferred.
The bathroom had a deep soaking tub because I had complained for years about the shallow tubs in modern houses.
One wall of the living room contained built-in bookshelves.
They were already filled.
My favorite novels.
The poetry collection I’d owned since college.
The cookbooks my grandmother had given me.
Even the old atlas Thomas and I used to plan imaginary trips when we were newly married.
I pulled it from the shelf.
Inside the cover, in his familiar handwriting, were six words:
For all the journeys still ahead.
I sank onto the sofa.
