No More Secondhand Souvenirs
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Summary
In our eight years of marriage, Graham brought me a snow globe every single time he returned from a business trip.
When I resigned from my staff writer position at "Wanderer" to care for his sick mother, he had pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my neck.
"Shirley," he’d whispered, his chest hitching with tender guilt, "wherever you can't go, I'll go for you. I'll see it all through my eyes, and one day, I'll walk every single one of those streets with you."
For our eighth anniversary, he wore the sharp charcoal suit I loved best.
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