the loving

she was watching a show with her grandchild. her silver hair, once tucked behind her ear, lay lazily across her eyes. her steel blue eyes staring out into empty space. the child sat enveloped in the show in the dance of colors and song while her grandmother's left hand stroked her hair then stopped and stayed atop her auburn hair topped head.

the granddaughter is hungry, the granddaughter scoots from couch down the hall to the kitchen. she is going to make a peanut butter sandwich, she is going to make it with jelly and cut the corners off. the old lady, with her unblinking eyes and hand dropped next to her side is groping as to where she is.

i am here in the corner. i was reading the paper. i was listening to the sound of children's programming and feeling the sunshine against my cheek. i was peeking at the end of every paragraph to my wife. to the love of my life for the last forty five years. i know that something terrible is coming. i am slow to react, slow to accept, slow to invite in this new terrible future.

there is grandfather clock in the entrance. there is the sound of it's chimes ringing in the afternoon. it is summer in southern oregon.

she returns to her seat, against my wife, she returns with her sandwich and the jostle of youth against the skin causes my wife to restart, like a classic car. her fingers flex and arm jumps twice before returning to stroking her hair.

'isn't this just lovely?' she says to the television.

i return to my article but the safety is gone. i pray she holds until friday, until our daughter comes to collect her daughter. i hope she holds until monday when she will see her doctor. i hope she holds until we are both buried.

the pain we will must accept in the memories she will forget.

though i am behind, i make a promise. i will study, i will implement, i will repair.

there is a draft that causes her skin to goose pimple. there is an echo to the television. there is danger here. i loose focus, count my breath and try to will her hand to continue to stroke, her mouth to continue to smile her eyes to continue to stay clear but even from here you can see a slight twitch at the edge of her lips.

our granddaughter gasps and claps at the screen. she pushes herself from the couch and spins to the music, her sandwich flopping in the breeze. my wife claps and hums along throwing tender sideways glances at me. i fold the paper uncross my legs, lean forward and breath it all in.

2

the night.