Six weeks.
Maybe a little more.
Maybe less.
My mind rejected it.
People did not disappear in six weeks.
Six weeks was a work schedule.
A school term.
A temporary diet.
It was not enough time to say goodbye to a husband I had only just learned how to love.
Russell became weaker quickly.
The house filled with medication, phone calls, specialists, schedules.
His children came more often.
So did Marlene.
At the hospital one afternoon, she stopped me before I reached his room.
“He’s resting.”
“I’ll sit quietly.”
“He doesn’t need a scene.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m his wife.”
“And I’m his daughter.”
People in the corridor were beginning to notice.
I wanted to push past her.
I could have.
But I imagined Russell hearing us arguing from inside the room.
So I sat down.
Three hours.
I sat beneath fluorescent lights while nurses walked past.
