I met Sarah on a Friday.
When she died, it was post-apocalyptic; it was tearing her favorite laced curtains off the walls because I’d much rather be blinded by the sun than the memory of her eyes; it was selling her Halloween-edition Superman cape because I was already overwhelmed by the blind-spots; it was burning her elaborate artwork in our fireplace because at that point, I just lost my ability to see; it was realizing that my world had become black paint splattered on white canvas; it was harsh, raging brush strokes; it was deliberate, blind art.
I tell people it’s abstract. 
I’ve been trying to uncover a particular blind-spot where the memory of our third Halloween together resides.  When she tied a cape around my neck and whispered that I was her Superman.  Now all I was missing was some spandex, she said. We laughed over paper cups filled with cheap Moscato wine.
When she left, she left me behind as a curtain-less window waiting for a hero to mend the pane in more ways than one. Honestly, I half-expected Superman to burst through the door with the news that Sarah broke free of her hospital bed and was waiting for me downstairs.
But she died on a Friday.  Eyes glued to the lids that hid her from me, eyelashes pasted to the skin already drained of color. I'd like to believe someone out there is the real Superman, for her at least.  A Clark Kent to keep my villains away. I’ll leave my door open for him.
Maybe he can lend me his cape.