The first page of the notebook read: For Linda, for the days when remembering becomes difficult.
Robert had written instructions for our children. If I asked where he was, they weren’t supposed to make me experience his death for the first time again and again. They should hold my hand, tell me he loved me and let me remember in my own time.
Then came pages about me: how I liked my coffee, where I usually left my glasses, which song calmed me when I became anxious, even how much water I gave the roses. But most of the notebook contained our memories. Our first date, our wedding, our children’s births, family vacations, silly arguments and ordinary mornings that had meant nothing at the time but now meant everything.
Near the end was the hospital photograph.
Underneath it, Robert had written: I asked Linda to smile because this is how I want her to remember us—not as goodbye, but together.
