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Haibun
Can it Get Any
Worse?
I sit at my
breakfast table drinking a hot mug of coffee trying to move my
blood through invisible veins at a faster pace so that I may
feel life. I can still hear the knocking at my door from
yesterday afternoon when a detective came to my home. I invited
him in and he sat with me and talked a little of the weather,
then told me my husband had died in the night. I just stared at
him as my heart sank, and my head began to spin. My husband had
just been released from the hospital a month previous and was in
a small apartment that he could easily manage. His desire to
take me to my death with him had prevented him from coming home.
He had always been one for Greek Tragedy—the drama a bit large.
The detective asked me if I was going to be OK. He stayed a
while longer and I saw the empathy in his eyes—his
helplessness. He said to me, "I know it was hard for you, but I
also can see you care very deeply for him." I heard the words
but nothing registered. He then said goodbye and left.
In and out of the hospital for the past several years took its
toll on a proud man always active and in charge. But, as he
became more dependant over time his thoughts grew fitful as his
ability to function weakened. At first he took his frustration
out on me verbally, then physically. At a certain point I feared
for my life and the courts removed him from our home. He was
taken to the hospital for help and observation. I visited him
three times a week as it was a two hour drive each way for me.
His violence grew with every visit to a point I stayed away for
fear of upsetting him further. He simply did not want me to live
without him and told me when he takes his last breath he will
reach up to my throat and squeeze the life from me.
Today, I sit in my home and just stare out the window I
find solace in the changes of the days—some
sunny, some rain storms, the sun rising and setting. Clouds move
across the sky then disappear.
I force myself to shower and dress—sitting
at the window becoming the 'watcher'.
Now I finally understand that I was watching for him, the angel
of death.
I meet with the funeral director, and at some point we choose an
open casket viewing.
My husband looks quite good, he was a handsome man. Six feet six
inches—the
casket is long. The funeral home has done an excellent job in
restoring him—almost
ten years younger.
Our children are small and they climb up the little steps in
front of the casket to say good bye.
two young girls
holding hands
not a sound anywhere
The Priest is late—his
plane is late in arriving from Greece and it is a distance to
the funeral home. His long white beard and robes / cap, give him
a painted look, as if stepping off a museum wall from another
century.
We gather at the casket as the Priest chants in Greek,
lamentations sung as his scepter releases a sweet thick scent of incense seeping
through all boundaries, visible and invisible.
Somehow I realize the meaning of words I cannot know in English
and break down into uncontrollable tears. It is a release I do
not expect.
The church ceremony is less intense for me. I watch the casket
on a gurney in the front of the church as the Priest cantors the
final words. The casket is turned full circle three times.
At this point my mind wanders and wonders if my husband is
getting dizzy. It makes me a little queasy watching.
mourning breakfast—
his ex-wife arrives
with
their wedding album
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