The blood was running down the strings.“Come with me,” I said.“Bobby, Tommy? Go home. You’ve been here all night.”I walked Sally over to the house and into the bathroom.“I hope you need to pee,” I said. “I found this treatment from a scene from a movie, Cool Hand Luke. Hard labor prisoners on road gangs do it to toughen up the hands and heal blisters from swinging grass whips. I was skeptical but it works. Pee on your hands ... both of them.”She screeched and sobbed and cried, but she did it.“I have this salve I buy from a belly-dance drummer I know. He makes it to sell to hand drummers. They use it to help toughen the skin.” After she finished, I had her wash her hands and smooth an application of the salve on her hands.“This has a beeswax base to give the salve body and seal the skin. The jar of wax is infused with a compound of oils of calendula, comfrey, echinacea, chaparral, myrrh, benzoin, tea tree, lavender, jojoba wax and olive oil.”I wasn’t sure how it would work on open. I tried to put away everything, but I left reminders here and there, most hidden from any guests. In my own way, that’s how I held on to him. I remember the day I took the last box up to the attic. It was filled with baseball cards he had collected as a boy. He said one day when we had a son, he’d give them to him. I put the box on the floor and stood there. Until that point I hadn’t truly faced the fact that he was gone. Maybe it was the shock wearing off, I don’t know, but as I stared out the attic window to the driveway below it hit me. My husband was dead. My legs may have well crumbled beneath me. I dropped to the floor and laid my chest across the box, my arms beneath my face. I cried. Harder than I did the day the Sheriff’s department called to tell me about the accident, harder than at the funeral and all the days since then. I cried for him, for us, for everything that we’d never have. Every inch of my body trembled. I had never felt so alone and empty. I lay there for.
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