Language death
A dead language is one no longer spoken, like the one shared by the Mister and me. And when I die, it will become an extinct language.
Every couple has its own language, of course. It’s a stew of mouthings and flappings and chortles and whistles whose flavor becomes more complex as it simmers through the years. Only he knew why a certain word could reduce me to fits of hysteria or an apparently benign melody might bring me to tears.
Our language has been dead for just shy of five months now. I am content and most days doing very well. But there is a silence that is loudest on cloudy mornings or wakeful midnights. Those are times I wish he were here to speak our language again.
A word of advise from the back nine? Listen to each other while you can.