“The boxes feel bigger and heavier than me. On top of a ladder isn’t my favorite place. I’m not sure how I’ll get this stuff stored.”

“Those are husband jobs.”

She said as she forked her salad. Or I mean, forked my heart. Gently of course. It was a plastic one. But the words were very stainless steelish, ones I’ve been forking over and over myself. Then she added:

“You have to remember that Bill would be getting older, with aching joints and an aching back and not so able to store boxes either. As much as he’d want to do his husband jobs for you, he’d be wanting help, like you. That’s the way husbands go.”

Yip. She’s right. I’ve given a weensy thought to that. But she made me look at the stainless steel fork. I can miss my husband, his company, his love, but I can’t long for all his services. If he were here, we’d ponder box-storing together. These bodies give way so that we long for Heaven. His did, mine is. And I do long for Heaven where our treasures are stored, especially my Bill.