The good wife

 


On his 63rd birthday, after the guests had left, the plates all cleared, and we had the house — so huge, quiet, and still at midnight — to ourselves again, he confided, “My biggest fear would be to suffer.”


He didn’t elaborate further, but I knew what was disturbing him. During dinner, we’d learned that a close friend, Kareem, had suffered another stroke. This third one, apparently, was debilitating, rendering him limp and almost lifeless.


“If I ever get like that, please just finish me off with a pillow or something,” he said.


“Of course…and then I’ll be hung for murder,” I said, chuckling, and was painfully aware that he wasn’t. Only the night crickets chirped on, blissfully ignorant.


That night, I laid by my husband’s side, wide awake. His breathing fell into a comforting rhythm as he slept. I traced the contours of his face lightly with my finger, careful not to wake him. I contemplated the words he’d uttered earlier. It was suddenly painfully clear to me how our mortal, vulnerable selves could never live one without the other.


This is a work in progress that explores themes of mortality and the ends that one would go to for love.


Main photo: Photo by Leon Biss on Unsplash


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