Every night, after the stroke, I got her in bed and she asked,
“Is my head in exactly the right place on the pillow. Exactly?”
The pillow is as thin as an envelope, yet it holds the slight
hollow her head makes. I guaranteed the perfect position.
She slumbers heavily, never moving. My sleep comes late.
These nights, I nestle my head in the precise same place
and pat the other side of the bed and say, “Good night.”
Her answer is a soft, thin echo in my head. “Good night.”
“I love you.” Then a weak tremulous “I love you too.”
In the morning, the usual aches as I roll over gingerly.
Her side is empty as a vacant casket. I caress the sheet.
“Good morning.” “Morning. Think your coffee’s ready.”
I head downstairs, using her stairlift with its familiar hum.
I smell the coffee pod and hear its dying spit and sputter.
Mac McLeod is an old man, ninety on his next birthday. A southerner by birth and disposition, he’s had several careers. A husband, father of five, former military aviator, lawyer, insurance agency owner, and Episcopal priest. He has a good sense of both humor and the absurdities of life and living. A new poet, he’s recently been writing sonnets.