She died in the spring. I sold the house and the truck and moved to a city I'd never seen.
Now I live in a small apartment with a porch that faces an alley. A plastic lawn chair is my only furniture out there.
Every morning I drive five miles to the library. That's my quiet hour. No radio, no CB, no her voice.
Today was the last day of my free trial for an audiobook subscription. I let it expire.
I sat in the plastic chair after the drive and listened to the silence. It's not empty. It's full of what comes next.
At seventy-six, I'm learning to be alone in a new way. The commute is the only place I'm not a stranger.