Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.
A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we even write to an image. You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds. This week our group writes to the word- love. This will be an excerpt from my new WIP for a new romance contemporary, What the Storm Didn't Take.
When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to fall in love. Love as I saw in the movies or on TV, you know a devilish, yet compassionate rogue who couldn’t get enough of me. His soft side always glistening in wait just below a steel surface exterior. To most folks he’d appear as a warrior, or maybe a scoundrel biker, gritty, his heart lined with sandpaper.
I’d know the truth.
That was my husband, the hopeless romantic who made me believe men were kind and compassionate, as well as rugged and protective. He brought my imagination to life in wonderful, astounding ways. When we argued, it was passionate and determined, before we stopped to practice empathy, attempting to see the other’s side. You see, we respected each other enough to know we had strong intelligence and even differing opinions had some common ground from which we could understand each other. We grew as human beings because of our differences and our many talks under the midnight moon, or the warming sun. I became a better person because of him. How often do folks say that? How often do we credit the ones instrumental in our lives? We can’t selfishly believe it’s all us on our own merits. We have folks who shape us, force us to take the leaps which become bounds of amazing miles.
My husband did that for me.
My husband is gone. He died and I don’t know who will be that coach for me now. I feel so lost. I’m afraid I’m stunted and will never recover and what will that mean for my son?