He began preparing for her death years before the actual event; his shocked expression;
A hand clasped to his chest. Practiced repeatedly asking what had happened followed
By a stumbling pause. When the time came, though, he found himself genuinely grieved;
Motions more than mere pantomimes of loss. Maybe, he thought, I’d actually loved her.
Reflecting on this he realized he’d never fully appreciated her. Their home became mausoleum-like,
Every photo of her, just her, now papered the walls. His own visage cut away, often raggedly.
His guilt lurked in every corner, yet no one ever looked. Rehearsal had been his undoing.