Struggle

Margaret Marie Mayweather. He smiled as he looked at her as she lay, head propped slightly on the pillow. Her eyes stared back, light blue, a bit moist, with the familiar twinkle of secrets shared. A smile sneaked past the wrinkly lips, a bit too dry, no longer able to bear the burden of food.

He swallowed the pills, accepting his fate. Either he would be forgiven, or he would not. Her hair, much thinner than when they met, much whiter, still caressed his hands lovingly as he held her head. An imperceptible nod.

He clutched her frail form around the neck. Sobs erupted from him, as he began. The cancer created frailness in her. Involountarily she grasped at his wrists, trying to abort the plan. Her mouth gaped, head tried to turn, eyes staring at all corners of the room for help.

Trembling hands closed her eyes, hiding the lifeless stare. "Goodbye Maggie, see you soon sweetie."

He sat in the bedside chair, too firm, too blue, too smooth, holding her hand. Just now he became aware of the beeping scream from the monitor.

Nurses rushed in and tried to revive her. His heart slowed, though his head still fought the memory of the convulsions parading to calm. The nurses looked at him accusingly, he no longer cared, and no longer heard them. Sleep carried him he knew not where. Had he done the right thing? Her lifeless untwinkling eyes burned his soul. Had he done the right thing? At least she would be at peace.