This story originally appeared on Role/Reboot, and is republished here with permission.
Elizabeth Scarboro’s husband died of cystic fibrosis, leaving her a 29-year-old widow. She shares her experience trying to find love again.
Wednesday morning, 7am, the radio alarm blaring. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t move, because you have miraculously woken up in your old life.
The bed’s warm, your husband’s snoring next to you. Only the snore is more of a low whine, accompanied by a rough pawing against your back. The dogs, nudging you to get up. Your brain, moving slowly, registers this as a logic puzzle. If you’ve gone back in time, and your husband is still here, the dogs can’t fit on the bed, and the alarm is set to beep.
The dogs do fit on the bed, and the alarm is set to radio, therefore he’s dead and time is linear after all. Your mind veers toward the surreal these days. This person who was Here is Gone, and it’s not much of a leap to think other seemingly impossible things may occur. But there’s no time to delve into that, the dogs need to get outside; you’ve got to be at work at 8:15.
Stumble into your sweats and take the dogs around the block. Or let them take you. They are big and unruly, and they were your husband’s—you only agreed to let him get them because he promised that you could be the fun parent.