"It's OK if you cry," he said. And so I did. I cried with my face buried in his naked back. I cried while the moon rose and his breath evened into sleep. I cried as I grasped his hand and as the garbage truck lumbered down Mt. Vernon street. I cried as the street lights turned off and dawn broke across our bed.
Our bed. The one we had shared since I was 19. Our bed. The one that had seen 3 moves. The one we bought with money I got as gifts for my college graduation. Our bed. The one I would never again share with him. The one, in a few hours, I would dissemble with the special tools LL Bean gives you and pack into the back of a Penske truck. My bed.
By the time he stirred I wasn't crying anymore.
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