I sleep in the center of the bed now. Three years after my husband’s death I have moved from “my side” to this new venue. It has been a gradual, unconscious, inching toward the middle. A metaphorical grief journey of sorts. A movement toward acceptance of what is no more: two bodies, warm, entwined, holding hands before sleep, spooning through the night, comforting in storms, ancient oak branches hitting roof and deck, lightening flashing, thunder cracking safe in each others arms. No more whispered nothings, no more laughter before sleep. No more conversations when troubles loom, when possibilities are parsed, finally given over to prayers, to the Our Father. No more quiet gazing at the love of my life, a lock of silver hair gracing his brow. No more listening to the soft even breathing he takes in deep sleep.