There are disadvantages at times to having a facility with words. That phrase has been running across my brain. I’m not quite a widow, but just as Ambrose is inexorably sliding towards brain death, so is my status inevitable. Ordained. Inescapable.
He’s continuing to decline. It’s harder to look at the bed and see the man that I loved for 17 years.
My dad paid Ambrose a high compliment, calling him a great wit. He didn’t even know Ambrose all that well, but that cleverness and fun of his personality still shone through.
I still wonder what it was that Ambrose told my dad about me, but only because Ambrose told me that he said something and wouldn’t tell me what it was. There’s no way my dad remembers what it was either, so I’ll have to wait until I rejoin the cosmic all of the universe to find out what it was.
I’m waiting.