Gerry was gone. That was reality. He would not caress the softness of his but, to secretly exchange a joke with him during a dinner of friends, to cry at home after a hard day at work because he needed something as simple as a hug; He would never share the bed with him again, nor would he awaken his sneezing attacks every morning, nor would he laugh with him until his belly hurt, they would never argue about who had to get up to turn off the light of the bedroom. The only thing he had left were a handful of memories and an image of his face, that day after day he was getting more vague
Gerry's absence had become a harsh reality that the narrator struggled to accept. The small, intimate moments they shared were now memories that felt more distant with each passing day. He mourned the simple joys of their companionship—jokes exchanged at dinner, a comforting hug after a tough day, and the playful arguments over household chores. This loss transformed the once warm and lively routines into an aching void filled with nostalgia.
The fleeting nature of those memories highlighted the depth of the narrator's grief. Without Gerry, the daily experiences that once brought laughter and connection felt hollow. The memories began to blur, as he grappled with the profound change in his life. He realized that all he had left were cherished moments that were slipping away, emphasizing the pain of not being able to share life’s little wonders with Gerry again.
