I wonder. . .

I wonder if she can even feel that our hands are around her in a feeble attempt to comfort her? I wonder if she realizes that she is not alone in her grief? She keeps saying in a quiet tone under her breath barely audible, "he was such a good man". Is this the mantra she repeated over and over to herself when she knew her husband crawled under baby girls blankets in the dead of the night? Is it the chant she told herself when she knew her husband put his hands where they naught belonged on her granddaughters thigh? Is it what helped her live with the knowledge that her dear man preferred her sister's bed to her own? How about when he beat her senseless with his fists or a belt, whichever was handy, on her face until she was bleeding, bruised and cowering in the corner? In order to have the strength to face another day did she repeat over and over to herself, and to whomever would listen, that he was a good man? A decent man? A handsome man without a doubt. Did the fact that he was handsome make up for the fact that he was instead an ugly monster on the inside? A pedophile, a wife beater, an adulterer? Or did she just need to say to herself that he was a good man enough times until she herself believed it?

I wonder. . .