The hermitage is empty. Even the ghosts have left. They left without saying a word. We are alone. The cat is on the bed. She contemplates the moment and appears to come to a conclusion.

The hermitage is empty. Even the ghosts have left. They left without saying a word. We are alone. The cat is on the bed. She contemplates the moment and appears to come to a conclusion.
I was so depressed I was delusional, looking for ghosts in crawlspaces, imagining voices of the dead in my head.
Every Fourth of July for 30 years I was with my wife — until her death a year and a half ago, so that makes the last two without her.
You try to get through the death of your wife. You got through the death of two brothers and your son. Why is it so hard to get through the death of your wife?