Barbara picked up the groceries from the trunk of her car, and as tears washed down her face, she walked into the house. The bag became heavier with each step, and she rushed to set it down on the kitchen counter. She paused and turned toward the wine rack. She left the bag on the counter, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, filled a wine glass partway, and sniffed the aroma. She tasted the wine and smiled. In the family room, she kicked off her shoes, sat in her favorite chair and tucked her legs underneath her. The dark gloomy weather invaded the interior, so she turned on the flowered lamp beside her chair. She ignored the usual cheery colors of the room, sipped her wine, and stared into the space of the room for a long time. She shivered, got up, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and then she lit a fire in the large stone fireplace. Her right hand brushed back a lock of her blond hair, and she paused to look at the gold ring on her right fourth finger. What can I do? How can I deal with this?
She stood in front of the stone fireplace with the large carved mantle. There were large bookcases on each side that extended all the way to the end of the wall. Books, pictures of family and friends and decorative antiques warmed the room. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and pulled the shawl tighter around her. She stared at the rusty, dented toy fire truck in the center and swallowed the lump in her throat repeatedly. The picture of her husband on the left smiled back at her, and she twisted the ring on her hand. I wish you were here. On the right was a picture of her daughter and her together. Pictures of the grandchildren were everywhere, and the tightness in her face softened; the lump in her throat stopped. Her gaze returned to the red fire truck, the tightness returned, and the sadness enveloped her.