A Sad Story
by Marsha Wilchfort
His body stiffened and his skin turned blue and his three kidneys stopped functioning -- the two kidneys he was born with and the one that was transplanted.
He looked upward toward the heavens and a god that he did not believe in, and died.
Two weeks later, I did the only thing I could. I bought a mini cooper and slept in his bed that night. The mini cooper smiled at me with its jaguarlike lights.
He had stopped smiling sometime after the stroke. He was really excited about the kidney transplant, thought he would be finished with dialysis and possibly living a somewhat normal life. He had waited five years for the kidney only to be told he also needed a new heart, that he wouldn't last five years.
If he was apprehensive about the surgeries he never showed it. He wanted to make it easier for me. He just went forward, never complained, never felt sorry for himself. He knew that self-pity would destroy him.
Yes, the mini cooper smiled at me with its jaguarlike lights. Did I say that the mini cooper was red? It had to be. It was my new traveling companion or should I say toy? I call her baby.
The mini cooper hugged my body. It was wide and short as he was long, lean and ill. It respects and accommodates my shortness. If I were a car I'd be a mini cooper. If I were a dog, I'd be a cat. If I could cry there would be no stopping.
"Cry me a river, I've cried a river over you," only it's not like that at all. If I let go, would my tear duct use its allotment of tears or do they regenerate or degenerate? It's not a crummy starfish. Is there such a thing as drowning in one's tears rendering them forever depleted so that you can never cry again? Do you lose your heart too or just the tear maker? How much does a tear weigh? Are they all the same size or do they not conform to anything? Could crying become a new weight loss program? It's not a snowflake, though it might as well be.
Is crying a physical activity? The loss of salt is tasty. I don't cry in tears. The future is forever becoming the past. The past lives deep in our space and time. I just want it all to slow down.
Ron didn't believe golf was a sport. He thought it was akin to gardening. When we went to affairs he would count how many people were in attendance. He would calculate how much gift money the bride and groom would have. He wasn't an accountant, he was an attorney. He would go from table to table at affairs having his picture taken.
After about six tables and three Bloody Marys, the photographer would say, "You--get out of this photo," Ron would put his arms around strangers smiling his vodka grin. This became some kind of tradition. When our friends would receive the photos they were either furious or hysterical, probably both.
Ron would be systematically erased chemically, his sweet face left at the assigned table.
In the world of me minus Ronnie, I'm a widow, as was my grandmother before me at the same age. Her beloved David died and my middle name is Dayvi. My Aunt Edith, my mother's Sister, lost her Alfred at the same age. My Aunt Beatrice, my father's sister, lost her Les at the same age as well.
Destiny, coincidence, chance.
This is one of more than 100 stories by 37 writers in this anthology. To read the others, purchase the book at:
Previous Previews
A Sad Story - June - 2011
Veranda - May - 2010
Dead Man's Suit - February 2010
Momalaeh - January 2010
A Father's Study - December 2009
My Love Life in A Nutshell - October 2009
Mama's New Shoes - August 2009
Nassau Bahamas 1956, A Love Story - June 2009