This morning, she addressed me by the wrong name.
She called me Paul. That was her husband’s name.
We were sitting in the garden, admiring the results of the work we’d put into our rockery.
I don’t think she noticed her mistake and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.
Paul had died nine years ago.
It’s good that he’s still remembered.
And it’s even better that she has found someone to love, just as much as she had loved him.
Originally published: Vine Leaves Press
