THOUGHTS AT HIS DEATH

When they told her he was dead, she cried. She cried for words not said and for roads not taken. She cried for their hurts, both real and imagined. She cried for their weaknesses and vulnerability. She cried for loneliness, both past and future. She cried for love found, love lost, and love regained. She cried for the same reasons she'd cried for the last fourteen years. Why is betrayal like death, and why do they feel so much the same?

When they told her he was dead, she thought, "I killed him." She had so often wished him dead, but that wouldn't have done it. She didn't truly believe she had killed him; but she had forced him to confront himself, to understand her pain, to acknowledge his part in destroying their marriage. It seemed that whenever they had talked about their problems, he'd complained of chest pains, or of being short of breath. She took it all so seriously, and he had grudgingly agreed to a long-overdue check-up and an EKG. After these false alarms, they decided it was anxiety and only caused damage to his ego. Now he was dead, victim of a failed heart. How ironic that even then, she immediately took the blame.

Note: I think this may end up as a part of the novel I think I'm going to write about Marcia (see "Her Decision")