I finished school. I taught English. I traveled when I could and became the aunt who brought ridiculous birthday presents.
A few men asked me out. Some were kind enough that I wished I could love them.
Ruth, my sister, once said, « You can miss Thomas and still have a life. »
« I have a life. »
« I know. I just wish you’d let someone share it. »
I got angry with her, although she hadn’t been cruel.
Eventually, she stopped asking.
I wasn’t unhappy every day. I loved my students, enjoyed my family, and made a life I was proud of. But whenever I saw a plane overhead, I blew it a kiss and pressed my palm to my heart.
Every year on Thomas’s birthday, I traveled to a memorial honoring those still missing from the war. I brought one white rose and an old photograph of us outside the college library.
I told him about my year.
