The end is approaching. I don't know what I thought it would be like, but I'm not sure I imagined it would be yet one more night of sitting at home, keeping dinner waiting on him, while he ran more and longer errands than he told me he was off to do. It feels like such a freaking normal night. Not like the clock is running down and my time married to the only man I've ever loved is coming to a close. For the last two days, I've been entirely unable to take advantage of the last few moments I have. I've had a stomach bug and spent most of my time in bed, and when I have been awake, we have been with groups of people. How do you say goodbye to the love of your life when you can barely speak at all?
I asked him whether there was one last meal he wanted me to make for him, before he left. I have a large repertoire of dishes I have invented, things he has enjoyed eating. That was one of my very favorite things to do, cooking for him. For a skinny man, he always seemed to eat with gusto. And I love to cook, even though I don't always love to eat. Somehow it seemed like a perfect blend. I felt like I could express my feelings for him through food even when the words were stuck in my throat. Sharing is caring, and food is love, right? So at his request I bought the ingredients for the first dish I ever made up, which we inelegantly named CTM (for "uh... chicken, tomato, mozzarella stuff"). (If you want to go searching for the recipe, I posted it under one of the Annie's Test Kitchen posts, somewhere around ATK #8 through 11, I think.) I meant to make it days ago, but the stomach bug interfered. So now I'm taking my one last chance and cooking. I hope I feel like eating it once we sit down. And I hope he sees it for the final farewell it is.
I feel like I ought to write more, but I really can't. Two paragraphs a night have been a challenge for me lately. Three really takes it out of me. I know that one day, I'll feel like my normal verbose self. One day.
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