Whispers

 He didn't sleep again last night and got tired of looking at the ceiling with the water spots from the big storm years ago. So he got up, slipping on the slippers she bought for him some time ago—he couldn't remember exactly. It seemed to him that getting moving was more challenging every day, but why should he care? He wasn't going anywhere as he looked at the calendar to confirm that. Why did she have to leave him? He whispered as he slowly stood up and made his way to the kitchen a million miles away, or so it seemed to him.

His daughter said she might come for a visit this week but hasn't shown up yet. Or did she? Surely, he'd remember if she had. He put the kettle on for his morning cup of tea, whispering he wished it was a strong cup of coffee, but the doctor said no caffeine, and that was that, except for the times he didn't listen and enjoyed a cup anyway.

Why is it so quiet here? He whispered, looking out the window and seeing some birds perched on a wire with their mouths wide open, singing a morning song he couldn't hear. He reached across the table, finding his hearing aids, whispering how much he had a love, hate relationship with the damn things. But he liked to hear the birds, so he put them on and smiled at the melodies outside his window.

He got up and shuffled across the kitchen to a junk drawer that held everything and then some. But it wasn't tape or paper clips he searched for; it was a half-pack of cigarettes he was after. The doctors will love this, he whispered, lighting it and returning to the table and a cold cup of tea.

He was enjoying his morning, making smoke rings, when the door opened. His daughter came in, put her arms on her waist, and asked him what he was doing in God's name. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray she had made for him in grade school long ago. What would Mom say? She asked him. Probably join me, he whispered.

Not long after, he met his beloved wife, leaving his daughter to sort through his things, a tearful job she never wanted to do. He didn't have much of any value, so she boxed it and donated it to charity—all except that old ashtray she made for him so very long ago.

Why did you have to leave me? She whispered as she closed the door behind her.

Mike 2024