“Where’s your wife?”

The grocery clerks, the drug store help, coffee shop baristas, deli servers, librarians, they all ask the same question. When I return now, alone, to the places we frequented together, they all expect to see the blind guy and his ever cheerful wife. 

But she’s not there, so they ask,

“Where’s your wife?”

And I try to answer, tear up, reach out to hold her hand that isn’t there, start crying, because I’m asking the same question,

Where’s my wife?

tio stib

You might also appreciate: The Walk to Paradise Garden; My Dementia Diary