HOLLY HELD THE BLUE COTTON sweater to her face and the familiar
smell immediately struck her, an overwhelming grief knotting her
stomach and pulling at her heart. Pins and needles ran up the back of
her neck and a lump in her throat threatened to choke her. Panic took
over. Apart from the low hum of the fridge and the occasional moaning
of the pipes, the house was quiet. She was alone. Bile rose to her throat
and she ran to the bathroom, where she collapsed to her knees before the
toilet.
Gerry was gone and he would never be back. That was the reality. She
would never again run her fingers through his soft hair, never share a
secret joke across the table at a dinner party, never cry to him when she
got home from a hard day at work and just needed a hug; she would
never share a bed with him again, never be woken up by his fits of
sneezes each morning, never laugh with him so much her stomach
would ache, never fight with him about whose turn it was to get up and
turn the bedroom light off. All that was left was a bundle of memories
and an image of his face that became more and more vague each day.
