I don’t suppose I did ask you how long did you mourn? It did seem inappropriate to hasten your recovery, though it also felt equally my responsibility to prod you along, ever so gently.
Hello, we meet again and your face lights up with a small grin to hide the wrinkled anguish. Our talk drifts back to his name, which seems to pop up constantly like a curse in our conversations.
We start to avoid it. There is no need to bring up what we are already aware of. Perhaps it remains an obligation.
The mourning continues for another year, and another. When will it end? You must stop mentioning it. But it seems like something that belongs to us, between us. It does not seem to leave. It is time to move on.
It always is.