Dreaded Anticipation

Weeks have gone by since I pressed a lock of my hair into his palm, yet it seems like a year. Each hour feels like a day and a day stretches into a week.

I didn’t go to work this morning. Something told me to stay home. I sat near the phone, waiting for it to ring. Dreading it. No call came.

The doorbell rang instead.

Through the frosted glass, I saw an olive green uniform. Certain they were there to tell me he was dead, my hand shook as I opened the door, my gaze fixed on the ground.