When glass gets broken
I am reading a note, in my husband’s thin blue handwriting, it starts.
- ask about prescription
- appointment at doctors?
- sick days?
I feel the familiar prickly sting start at the back of my eyes, I do not want to cry so I put his list back down on the table by the bed and continue to hoover. My husband is in the shower and I have a few minutes to clean up a little, take away old flowers, change the sheets and suck away crumbs. He can not tolerate the noise, so I work quickly. The water stops and I turn the hoover off and hit the button that pulls back the chord. The black line pulls the plug back quickly, the machine and I feel we should not be here. I pull the door shut quietly and wince at the loud click of the lock as I leave. I do not want him to see how upset I am. Continue reading “Campfire Stories”