Sometimes I think about my husband, Baba Chenge. He died too. He cruises past other cars effortlessly. He smiles and laughs easily, chatters animatedly about something I don't hear. He asks me questions once in a while, cocks his head and faces me with a bright smile. I only nod, even when the answer is not yes. My husband, all he ever wants to hear is yes.

My happy, happy husband. His tall imposing gait towers over me and his large hand engulfs mine. We are walking. I stare at his body, firm and toned underneath his work clothes. His firm body that has not given in but remains tight after years of exhaustion and stress. I admire his body, its resolve to remain normal, to remain itself. I admire his unwavering determination, a trait that my own body has demonstrated to not possess. I think about how my body has unravelled, given up, whilst his remains calm, unperturbed, as though one's loss means nothing to another. But in this moment, when his hands venture to explore me, I know he feels the loss. The steel of his resolve crumbles.

He grabs my body and holds it tightly. His hand caresses the small of my belly. He grins this charming smile, the same one that made me fall in love with him. We should put another one in there. That is what he tells me, eyes staring deep into mine. In his eyes, I see all that he has lost. I feel in his touch that entire he has felt. In his eyes, those two haunted orbs, I see Baba Chenge staring at me. The happy, happy man is gone. I see the grief, so much grief that threatens to drown him. I do not respond. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. I am afraid to look into his eyes. I am afraid that his grief will drown me. So the dance begins. He loses himself in the throes of passion and hides from his demons within me. They follow him everywhere. The dance is slow, the rhythm sultry. This song we make, this beautiful symphony we build pulls my eyes toward his. In that moment, our souls touch. With a loud cry, he bursts into a hundred flames and a million sparks. I hold him close to my chest and feel the moisture of his tear-stained cheek against my breast. I shed a tear too, for my hurting husband and hold him until the silent tears subside and he succumbs to sleep.