Narrative 1

I sat on my husband’s favorite hideous tattered looking couch, in which he cherished, sobbing while mourning his death. I previously hated this couch but now I waste one long lonely miserable day after another laying on it asking myself why he had to die so young. I sit here hugging the pillow he once used hoping if I hug hard enough that the pillow will eventually turn into him and I will wake up from this nightmare.
I picture him sitting peacefully on this couch reading the morning newspaper and drinking his coffee so appreciatively. I can still smell his manly pungent cologne on the pillow and I begin to weep relentlessly. The smell reminds me of when he previously held me tightly in his arms. I spotted the coffee stain he made on the couch the day before he passed away that he was so certain he was going to get out. I admire the unfinished unattractive wall paint that he had planned to finish years ago, but never got to. With the aroma of smoke in the air I pictured myself smelling the frayed out of date jacket he used to wear that reeked of cigarettes. I sit here searching for anything to remind me of him.
I spend my days longing for just one more moment with him or even to talk to him again. I lay her wondering if I could have done anything differently to prevent his death. There is not a minute out of any day that I don’t think about him. I often find myself contemplating whether or not I want to live without him. I have finished contemplating and today Is the day I reunite with my one true love.