If you are a widow, the best place to end a week, which was more like 2 to 3 weeks, is atop a bed that swallows you whole. Everything, all the stuff that should be talked out (if there were a husband), the tweaks, the unsettles, the too-big-to-handles, slowly drain out the back end. The fluffy covers underneath deflate as they absorb confusion and hurt and grumbles. Soon the fluff feels like concrete or as concrete as a mattress layered in pads and comforters can feel. Which is not exactly concrete. Except compacted stuff feels like concrete.
Stuff. The dog hears about it. The walls, the journal, possibly the neighbors over the fence hear about it. None of those seem to listen or care. The pillow is silent. The TV talks non-stop. The phone prefers other matters.
Husbands are for spewing, for understanding, for agreeing, for perspective. Husbands care, maybe try to fix, or at least clean the kitchen while you pout. Husbands are for… stuff.
If there is no husband, a bed with fluff will have to do. A bed and Jesus and the promise of a new week with not so much stuff, or at least help stuffing the stuff away.
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