Faith and believe - by Innocent Benedict

Widow Sends Letters To Her Dead Husband Every Week, One Day She Gets A Reply She didn't cry at the funeral, not one tear. People whispered, stared, waiting for her to break down. But just stood there, her face still, eyes locked on the wooden box like she was waiting for it to change its mind. She was 29, a new widow, and her husband wasn't supposed to die. Not yet. Not now.They were planning to move. He had just fixed the roof. They'd argued about pepper soup the night before he traveled. Nobody tells you what to do with your hands when you're standing in front of a grave. She held her bag too tight, like it was holding her together. After the last prayer was said, and the red sand began to hit the coffin, she  turned around and walked away.She couldn't watch it. She just couldn't. The compound was too quiet when she got home. the chair he always sat on, the slippers by the door, even the half open tin of powdered milk he always forgot to seal. Everything stayed where he left them, and it made her chest feel heavy, like the air didn't want to move. That night, she didn't sleep.Instead, she sat at the dining table with a piece of paper, the kind with tiny blue lines. Her pen hovered for a long time before she finally wrote.  I don't know how to be in this house without hearing your cough from the bathroom." She paused, swallowed hard. "I cooked your favorite soup today." I kept looking at the door like you'd walk in and say, "Ehen, have you finally accepted that mine tastes better?" But the door didn't open. She kept writing page after page. When she finished, she folded the paper carefully and placed it in an envelope. The next morning, she walked to the old post box near the church and dropped it in. No stamp, no address, just the husband name written boldly.Every week after that, she sent another letter. Rain or shine, long or short. Sometimes it was about what she cooked. Other times it was about how the neighbors were behaving. She told him about her dreams. She told him about the silence. She told him everything. Her friends stopped visiting after a while. They didn't know what to say anymore.Some of them whispered that she wasn't letting go, that maybe she needed help. But she didn't get herself bothered by there mere saying. She wore her ring. She laid on one side of the bed. She cooked for two and she kept writing. On the 21st letter, she paused before sealing it. Something about the day felt strange.The wind outside wouldn't stop humming. Her heart was beating faster than usual, but she shook the feeling off and walked to the box. 2 days later, something happened. Something impossible. Inside her mail slot was an envelope, brown, just like the ones she used. She didn't touch it at first. She just stared. Her hands trembled as she picked it up.What she saw was her dead husband reply" telling her not to give up her faith and believe.Classclosed.

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