awe at the new home, triple its size. We have been lucky in this life and I know that we always will be with his fingers interlaced in mine. I have no need of time these days, but judging by the angle of the sun it’s time to head in for Richard’s medications. That blinding light seems to be haunting me these days and I tightly shut the blinds to prevent the red glare and veined patterns on my sight. It seems each day I can see less.
Three of the round red, two of the large white. One blue gel capsule. Two tablespoons of tan powder mixed with one cup water. Our lives have been measured down to pills; our days have become a science. I line them up perfectly against the marbled counter top. I stare until my vision goes blurry and they transform into the pebbles at the headwaters of the Mississippi. The water trickling over them, with hints of glitter sparkling in the summer sun. The start of something great traced back to a trickling stream, as if linear time was embodied in its path, showing growth and accumulation only to have it dispersed in a wide sea, drowned. Suddenly, I’m floating in it, being pushed and pulled by the currents. I don’t know which way is up nor if it is safe to breathe. All my life I expected a great epiphany, that moment when I realized I was old and wise. It never came. There is no acceptance of a full life, because you will never feel like you led one. There was always more knowledge out there for me to grasp, if only I could reach it, if only it could graze my fingertips and sink into my memory. I can’t hold my breath any longer and reality seeps into my lungs, filling them up, weighing me down.
The red before my eyes is too much to bear and I open them to be blinded by the morning sun. Dick’s side of the bed is still made, still cold as it was when I checked it last. I slowly swing my feet to my slippers and make my way to the empty kitchen. There is no familiar smell of smoke, no coffee on the pot. I measure out the scoops with a heavy hand—six just like Dick used to. Sitting down, I stare at the hands that are not my own, yet no one else’s. I wish for a hand to hold or a heart to feel. I stare at the table to sleep through the day, waiting to awake in the night, still haunted by the sun.
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