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.

Mushroom Goddess

My grandfather once told me he was happy to be retired. He was able to go to the horse track any time he wanted. I saw a bit of depth in those still sharp eyes. I saw sadness. In those pools echoed the regret of deeds undone. Of potential never realized. Of worth not cashed in.

I visited grandpa years later. It's amazing how quickly time passes. He was older, I was in my 20's. It was his birthday, 80 years old. We gathered around in a sterile, barren room with overly used long tables, the type you see at public functions with so much tape remnants, and straggly bits of crepe paper clinging to the memory of some party.

This table had bits of some earlier meal shared by many, as the previous occupants of this room had been less than fastidious. Grease still shined in a non-pattern across one section of the table, while my end held the uncoveted fallen of hastily eaten pizza.

A mushroom lay posed, perfectly cut, decorated with the right amount of sauce, drizzled with a dash of cheese. An amazing gift from the Mushroom Goddess, it was left here, uncared for, uncleaned, unpraised.

I looked at grandpa, blowing out his candles as he looked at so many strangers. His robe was open, his diaper sagged.

We were all uncomfortable, and eventually grandpa was escorted back to bed. Our goodbyes were unanswered. I looked at everyone cleaning up. I ate the mushroom. It was unfair to leave it behind.