He was dead. Nothing would ever bring him back.
It was silly and irrational, but her response was to go to the closet. Upon opening the door, she hit in the face by a memory.
“This is supposed to be a walk-in closet, right?”
“Oh, Harry, be quiet.”
“It’s not really a ‘walk-in’ at this point.”
“I’ll clean it later,” she’d said dismissively.
Now, two months later, the closet was still a mess, Harry was dead, and Rita needed something black.
Tearing through the confining space, she searched desperately for any garment somber enough to hold her pain.
The whole of the world felt a bit dark, a little grayer. All that she felt inside was hollow; all that she felt around her was black.
In her frantic state, she was unable to see anything, and sank into a sobbing mess on the floor.
She was sitting next to the suitcases they’d taken to New Hampshire, visiting the grandchildren. She sobbed harder.
She wanted to disappear into the bleakness.