Paul hadn’t expected the end to feel like this; the absence of pain was unexpected. More than anything, a hollowing out. The edges of things had dulled, the distance gained softened, the body delicately seeping back from its source.
Still but not gone, he lay as if held by a thin, fraying thread. Outside, it was winter. Or was it fall? He couldn’t remember. Not anymore. Gray light emanated from a crack in the blind; dust motes, like tiny stars, drifted.
His hands, slack against the white of the sheets, were once calloused and strong. He had been a carpenter, nimble, but now his fingers had grown numb. He couldn’t make a fist — not for days, or was it hours?
His blood was retreating. He could feel it, but there was no pain, just a gentle withdrawal.
What time is it when time has lost its rhythm? Clocks ticked on, but not for him. Untethered, he floated inside the house now.
His breathing came stretched apart.
A nurse came and went. A friend. His brother, maybe.
Outside the edge of awareness, voices murmured. Paul could no longer make out words.
Someone took his hand. A warm palm wrapped around his fingers. He couldn’t return the grip, but he felt it.
Function slowing down. Without panic, the lungs struggled. Even the heart had grown polite in its labor. Each beat was a soft knock on a door that didn’t expect an answer.
And he saw things, sometimes. Not mirages — memories. Loose and partial. A class trip as a child, then running with his father. Fishing, cold water on bare feet. A girlfriend, then his wife’s voice, the edges of her frayed. She wore her hair up.
Now, nothing demanded anything of him. Not the body. Not the past. Not even his breath.
The room was airless.
Inches of him disappeared as he was reclaimed. A tide came in.
He was in a new world now. A world without words. A world without the need for words. Breaths came farther apart.
Wait.
Wait longer.
Allison Whittenberg is an award winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry.
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