[stylist] CK prompt response

[KajunCutie926 at aol.com]

Very well written... Great job!
Hit VERY close to home for me.
Myrna
 
 
In a message dated 3/20/2014 8:49:02 A.M. Central Daylight Time,  
ckuell at comcast.net writes:



This morning, I awoke to find that my wife of nearly  twenty-five years, 
was dead. It wasn't immediately apparent, of course. But as  I lay there, 
beginning my morning ritual of thanking the cosmos for granting  me another day, 
I noticed the lack of clanging and banging from downstairs. My  beloved, 
who rose every morning with military promptness and determination,  was not 
what one would call considerate. Whether it was the heavy closing of  the 
bathroom door, the blowing of her nose--a sound which I'm quite certain  could 
be used to call home ships during a hurricane, the emptying of the  
dishwasher, the symphonic banging of lids on pots-quiet, she's  not.



So I rolled to my left, and gradually moved my hand in  that direction 
until I encountered the mass I've been married to for what  seems like forever. 
She didn't jerk away from my touch as she normally would,  nor was there any 
signs of snoring, a sound that might be mistaken for the  crushing of stone 
at a gravel pit. I poked her with a finger, then quickly  withdrew and 
covered my face with a protective arm, sure I'd get a backhand  with rattlesnake 
quickness, but nothing happened.



I next  reached under the comforter and sheet to give her a nudge. Nothing 
happened.  When I slid my finger ever so gently under her tee shirt to touch 
her skin, it  was cool, almost like touching defrosted chicken. Holding my 
breath, I gave  her a quick shake. Again, there was no response. 



"Honey?" I  said, still not grasping the situation. "Honey? You up?"



The  only sound was the ticking of the clock on her bureau. 



I got  up on one elbow, grabbed her shoulder and gave her a more vigorous 
shake. "Hey  sleepy head," I said. There was no response. Panic began to wash 
over me then.  I rolled her over on her back and put my ear to her chest. 
All I heard was the  internal echo of my own heartbeat. Next, I put my ear in 
front of her mouth,  struggling to detect the sound of breathing. All I 
heard was the idle wind,  like when you put your ear to the hollow of a sea 
shell. Desperate, I reached  over, found her substantial shnooze and pinched 
her nostrils shut. Half  expecting an elbow to fly up and crush my windpipe, I 
waited for some  reaction. Nothing.  



I released her, the woman of my  dreams, the woman I'd worked so hard to 
woo back when we were carefree  undergrads, and laid back down on my pillow. 



Dead. She was  dead, passed away, kicked the bucket, bought the farm. There 
would be no more  romantic, candlelight dinners. No more spontaneous trips 
to the beach. No  sharing a large bucket of popcorn slathered with 
artificial butter at the  movies, or walking hand in hand so she could buy another 
pair of shoes at the  mall.   



What would I do? What should I do? Thoughts  careened around in my brain 
like a wayward pinball machine. No more nagging  about when was I going to get 
a real job. I should get the phone. No more  complaining that I didn't 
clean the bathroom properly, or didn't get all the  recycling out, or left a 
sock in the middle of the bedroom floor. Should I  call the police, or 9-1-1? 
Are they the same? No more wasting a week visiting  her miserable family in 
Armpit County, Kentucky. An EMT-I should call an EMT.  No more turkey bacon, 
or turkey kielbasa, or making me eat friggin  Kale.



I picked up the phone on my bedside table and dialed  nine, one. then I put 
the phone down. What was the hurry? Dead is dead, right?  I got out of bed, 
dressed only in my ratty boxer shorts, and scratched myself  in a way my 
lovely spouse would have berated me for, if she were alive. I went  into the 
bathroom, peed, and left the toilet seat up. Without brushing my  teeth, or 
putting on clothes, I skipped out the bedroom door singing, "Today,  I'm 
makin' waffles!"



chris


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