My husband, mordy wallzer, was a psychologist who loved jaz and cooking. He died on april eleventh, two thousand 20, when we were in separate hospitals with cobid. We didn't have a chance to say good bye, and he was cremated with no one who loved him to see him off. Almost two years later, i've come to acceptance, but i still sleep on my own side of the bed wearing one of his tea shirts. And sometimes i listen for the sound of footsteps in the apartment and his voice in the morning. From the new york times, i'm michael bbarro.

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