Alice

Every Wednesday, at 2 p.m., without fail, Howard thought of his late wife. It wasn't that he didn't think of her at other times; it was just, at this precise time, certain memories would come rushing back as if they had just happened an hour ago. At first, they had been so strong that Howard became convinced that she was still alive--alive!!!---and then the devastating realization that she was not waiting at home for him (or playing with their terrier Teesta, or eating vanilla ice-cream, or wrapping her polka-dot scarf around her dainty neck, or even pulling up the weeds in her garden) would paralyze him.

Eventually, he learned to prepare himself for this event, since he never could predict how it would leave him feeling. Sometimes, often times, he would take Wednesdays off from work altogether. He couldn't stop it from happening; even when--and it did happen--he forgot the time or the day--all of a sudden, he would mysteriously appear in a lifelike dream where they were visiting her mother, or just waking up next to each other, or arguing about what color they were going to paint the hallway. The hallway--for crying out loud, why did he ever fight with her about that?! Little things like this crushed his soul now.

As the years dredged on, he waxed and waned between loving this golden hour that allowed him just a few more vivid moments with her, and hating the heart-wrenching solitude it left him in (I could and should have loved her more! If you give me a second chance I will!!!). This strange phenomenon followed him well past retirement, and, at age 86, on August 3rd, a Wednesday, at 2 p.m., she came again. And, at last, at last, this time, she stayed.