[stylist] CK prompt response

Thu Mar 20 19:33:14 UTC 2014

Chris,

Funny, but almost Henry Jamesonian with the flow and language.

Great details that tell so much. In particular, I like the following:

the blowing of her nose--a sound which I'm quite certain could be used
to call home ships during a hurricane, 

the symphonic banging of lids on pots

When I slid my finger ever so gently under her tee shirt to touch her
skin, it was cool, almost like touching defrosted chicken. 

All I heard was the internal echo of my own heartbeat. All I heard was
the idle wind, like when you put your ear to the hollow of a sea shell. 

No more wasting a week visiting her miserable family in Armpit County,
Kentucky. 

Not having dealt with this situation, I feel it's realistic nonetheless.
And you mmade me laugh today, grin.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris
Kuell
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 8:48 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] CK prompt response

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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