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� sadness in tenses �


9:22 p.m., 2002-01-15

ann cried again today in front of me. bob died four years ago today. i never met bob, but i have seen the stuffed head of the deer he shot years ago. i have seen the hat he wore the day before he died from cancer. i have seen his small cache of playboy magazines in his basement study (ann doesn't know that they are there, she doesn't want to snoop in his things.) from the late eighties. i have seen his wife cry from missing him.

his widow.

when bob died, ann started exercising in order to keep her mind off of the immediate shock of her husband leaving her. no one wants to say what actually happened. it has somehow become easier to use euphemisms, but i guess that's what they were invented for. ann started walking every morning before work. she is a travel agent. bob is an engineer.

was an engineer.

she walked before work in order to clear her head and prepare for another day alone. it was easier to do this out of their house rather than in. she lost a drastic amount of weight in less than a year. she once remarked that if bob could see her now he wouldn't recognize her. my thought at the time was that maybe that was the idea. to become someone else. a defense mechanism of sorts. if she didn't correlate the woman in the pictures without the dust with the woman in the mirror maybe that would lessen the pain of seeing them everywhere.

in the pictures, bob was alive and happy. they both were.

and that was how it was supposed to be.

ann cried in front of me today, and i didn't know what to tell her when she said she misses bob.

present tense.




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