“His eyes are still a vision of emeralds,” I assure myself, then return to my perpetual cycle of rocking.

The chairs were handcrafted beauties, masterpieces of oak that only my husband’s hands could carve.  They were structurally perfect, with lace-like etching and honey stain.  He was once an able man, one who whittled like no other, one who ran 5K’s with the girls and played his guitar with passion.  He had carved these chairs for my parent’s anniversary, but keeping them around after the incident has proved to be beneficial.

He was once a lawyer, a profound one at that, until he helped the wrong people.  They shot him at the office, and the bullets ricocheted off Amelia’s preschool picture and dove straight into his chest.  He lived, but he no longer speaks, nor can he move from the neck down.

I had never thought that at 37, I’d be swaying on a rocking chair while Eric’s feeding tube concluded its last drips of dinner.  However, maintaining the thought that he is still the same Eric that drove 9 hours to deliver me flowers at university helps.  He is still the man I fell in love with at 18, still the man with the kindred spirit and the love for animals, still the man he was when he walked.

So I kiss him on the cheek, and gaze at the sunset as I return to my swaying once again.