Wrapped In Armor

My Dearest Brody,

I hurt thinking of what may have happened to you. I hurt knowing that wherever you are, you're unable to get back to us. I hurt knowing that I've failed in finding you. I hurt knowing I'm either crazy believing that you're out there somewhere, and I hurt thinking you aren't.

Our little Lexington is six months old and cutting her first tooth. She's healthy and happy, and every day, she looks more and more like you. Our London has dove into piano, and over summer vacation, she attended music camp. She played many of your pieces, and each night as I sat and watched her play, I smiled and clapped for her.

I have dreams of you often, not the nightmares that I had before, but very pleasant dreams, sometimes too pleasant. I still haven't slept in our bed, and I fear I never will again. It's been eight months without you, and I know when I smell your pillow, it truly isn't your scent I smell, but the memory of it. People say memories fade . . . and that scares me senseless. I never want to go a day when I don't remember your smile, your smell, your touch, your voice, or the way you loved me.

Yours always and forever,

Em

Contains mature themes.

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Hljóðbók: 14 november 2023