I watched as they took her away. Silent, somber, stoic in their expressions. It was cold, the whole thing; the mood, the air, her hand as I held it one last time before she was loaded in the van destined to a place even more cold; the morgue. I couldn't shake the feelings of grief, shock and disbelief as I turned to go back inside to the dark, dreary world that now awaited my arrival. The silence was deafening. How does one even begin to pick up the pieces, start over, carry on? I thought about that question. I thought about it alot. I walked to the kitchen which was dimly lit with the light creeping from under the cabinets. I grabbed a bottle of scotch I'd been saving for a special occasion; this was an occasion although there was nothing special about it. I poured myself a large drink thinking to myself as I poured that none of this was going to go away no matter how much I drank. I would be faced with the same umfathomable loss in the morning, only I would have a hangover to go with it. I sat the glass on the counter and walked around the empty, silent house. No more laughter, no more of the sound of her busying herself with the chores needed doing. No more humming or singing quietly to herself as she went about. I walked into the living room, Hmm - living room... There was nothing living about it. It was dark, cold and quiet. too quiet. I could only hear the ticking of the clock ticking away the seconds, minutes and every damnable miserable silent hour as I sat down in the recliner staring across the empty room. I couldn't think. I was vacant. I just sat and stared listening to the ticks of the clock, my heart breaking in my chest and my own breathing. Some time had passed, I fell asleep in the chair. I startled myself awake as the image of her being wheeled out of the house on a gurney played over and over in my mind. I looked up at the clock still ticking incessantly; it was two, o, clock in the morning. I found myself starting to cry. The realization set in that I was now alone. I hadn't made any phone calls yet. I didn't want to be bothered by the "I'm sorry's or even worse Is there anything I or we can do?" Spare me! I know they mean well. I just didn't want to deal with all the damned misery of it all. I walked over to the record player and placed the needle on the record to a song we last played. It was Sinatra's I did it My Way. I could barely get through the first verse before shutting it off. All of the sudden I felt as if I wanted quiet, I needed the quiet. My thoughts were loud enough and I couldn't very well turn them off now could I. I could, but then that would be messy. I didn't want to put anyone through that ordeal. I sat back down with my head in my hands, my mind racing with thoughts as there was nothing else I could do in that moment. I tried not to think, but there was just no way around it.

© Brian C. Jobe