Eight months after losing my wife of 43 years, I thought the worst the quiet could do was keep me company—until a freezing Thursday in a Walmart parking lot, when I gave my winter coat to a shivering young mother and her baby. I figured I’d never see them again.
I’m 73, and ever since my wife Ellen died eight months ago, the house has felt too quiet.
« It’s you and me against the world, Harold. »
Not peaceful quiet, but the kind that settles into your bones and makes the refrigerator hum sound like a fire alarm.
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