There is a certain kind of November rain in Virginia.
It isn’t violent.
There is no thunder, no dramatic sky, no sense that the weather itself understands something terrible has happened.
It simply falls slowly and steadily, soaking into your coat, your hair, and the spaces inside your mind where thoughts have become too exhausting to finish.
That was the kind of rain falling the day I buried my husband.
Terrence Washington died on a Tuesday at 4:47 in the morning.
I remember the exact time because I was holding his hand when it happened.
There was a clock on the wall of his hospital room, and for some reason I stared directly at it.
Maybe because when your entire life is coming apart, your mind searches for one solid fact it can hold onto.
4:47.
Sixth floor.
Pale green walls.
A window facing the parking garage.
Terrence’s hand inside mine.
I had been a nurse for nine years.
I had sat beside dying patients more times than I could count.
I knew what the monitors meant.
I knew how breathing changed.
