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They told me that he probably died on impact. I’m glad.

Not that he’s dead, but that it probably didn’t hurt, that he didn't wallow in pain. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I think I know when it happened. I mean, I’m not seeing Jesus in soap suds or anything, I just keep playing it in my head over and over and in a moment I just felt different, like my heart slowed down just long enough to force me to catch my breath and realize that nothing would be the same.

I remember going to bed early that night. I had this dream that my husband and I were in the middle of the ocean, me on a piece of driftwood, and him in this tiny rowboat, singing, like an idiot. My feet felt heavy, like someone had tied cinder blocks or something to them and I remember calling out to him, over and over and over again but I couldn’t hear myself because my mouth wasn’t really a mouth, it was just this hole in my face that was good for nothing. It's never been good for anything. I called out to him again – he didn't even so much as glance my way. He sang a song I didn't know and he sang it loudly, like he had never been happier in his entire life. Meanwhile, my feet were getting heavier and heavier and all of a sudden it felt like hands were grabbing and pulling me downward, further and further. I started screaming, tried screaming for help from him, from anyone, and all I could hear was his singing; these boisterous, full bodied crescendos as I went under.

Then I opened my eyes and heard a knock at the door. Or maybe the knock at the door caused me to open my eyes -- I don't know. It doesn't matter. When I went downstairs, they told me my husband was dead, that he probably died on impact. ... I'm glad.

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