“I don’t know what we’ll do,” she sobbed.
He lifted her chin gently till the brown-speckled eyes met his. “We’ll manage,” he said, surety threaded carefully into his voice. He didn’t want her feeling as if she was weak for unraveling or wondering whether any of what she was feeling was excessive or unreasonable. It was not.
He didn’t have all the answers, either.
He had plenty of that.
And it had to be enough.
“Everything’s a mess,” she sighed.
It was. And yet, it wasn’t. Not everything. Their care for each other had not a single tangle in it.
“It’s like this cotton field,” he breathed. “Raw fibers that are nonetheless brimming with nascent fabric potential. We’ll pick through our grief and weave love into a new life.”