Phantom Husband

Wednesday October 5, 2022

So. Ren is gone. Not gone fishing, nor hunting, nor to a conference, nor camping, nor to some hussy. He’s not off to lunch with friends. Nor has he gone to his Fishing Club or his Art Club. He’s not taking photos for the Art Club website, or at Blicks buying supplies for his latest painting. He’s not at Galpin Ford waiting for our car, nor at the carwash or store. Nope. He’s gone for good. He has no phone, no computer, no magic watch. He can’t call home, nor answer my call. He’s gone, gone for good.

They say when you lose a limb you feel it still. It’s called a phantom limb. I have a phantom husband.

At night he’s with me in bed. I turn over and see the shape of his head on the pillow next to me. And then he’s gone. I pass his office and the shirt on his chair is filled. He works still at his computer. I turn my head to ask him a question, but he’s gone. I look for him in his arm chair, at his chair at the table where we ate so many meals, made so many plans, but he’s faded away. I feel him next to me as I watch television, but when I turn to laugh with him he’s gone. And yet. He lingers still.

I feel him in the walls where his paintings hang. I know him in his office filled with his debris—his pens, his glasses, his canvases, his photos, his books, his paints, his ham radio, his computer and printer, and paintbrushes, and tools.

But. I can’t touch him or hold him, nor laugh with him or grump at him. I can’t kiss him or look him in the eye. He’s gone.

What will I do?