The Morning After Everything

The alarm blared at 6:30 AM, same as always, and I reached for Mark's side of the bed before remembering. The cold sheets hit me like they did every morning now—a sharp reminder of the empty space where my husband used to breathe beside me.

I shuffled to the kitchen, moving through the apartment like a zombie going through the motions of a life that no longer fit. Three months after the funeral, everything still felt borrowed, temporary.

Buster, our retired greyhound with the gentle eyes, followed me into the kitchen. His nails clicked on the hardwood, a sound I used to find annoying when Mark was alive, but now it was the only thing that made the apartment feel lived-in. Luna, Mark's Siamese cat, sat on the counter, watching me with her usual judgment, as if she knew I was doing it all wrong.

"You miss him too, don't you?" I whispered to Buster, scratching behind his ears. He leaned into my touch, grateful for any affection.

I opened the cabinet and stared at the row of supplements—Mark's collection. Vitamin D for bone health, omega-3s for his heart, B-complex for energy. All the things that were supposed to keep him healthy, that were supposed to give us decades more together. The irony wasn't lost on me. He'd been meticulous about his health, and then the aneurysm took him in seconds anyway.

The vitamin bottle sat there, half-full. I thought about throwing them away, but instead, I dry-swallowed one. It wasn't about health anymore. It was about holding onto something he believed in.

Luna hopped down and rubbed against my leg, finally acknowledging my existence. Buster rested his head on my knee. The apartment was so quiet without Mark's terrible singing in the shower, his constant phone calls to his sister, the way he'd complain about politics over coffee.

But maybe, I thought, wrapping my arms around both animals, I wasn't as alone as I felt. Some mornings, that was enough.