A Quick Passing

Gavin was alone. Sarah, his wife of fifty years was gone - dead.
Dead - the word was as heavy on his tongue as it was on his heart.
Dead - the word clearly prohibited negotiation or reprieve.
Dead - the word stood on its own.

Gavin had woken first as he did everyday. He had started the coffee then headed for the shower. By the time he had toweled himself dry, the smell of Maxwell House permeated the house. His stomach had grumbled as he pulled on his overalls.

All the same as everyday. Except that when he returned to the kitchen, Sarah wasn't there. With his pulse rat-tat-tatting a foreboding beat, Gavin returned to the bedroom. The blankets still covered Sarah's still form.

Gavin knelt now at Sarah's side of the bed. Her body was cool, her fingers stiff, her chest still.

They had both wanted it this way. A quick passing without pain. But Gavin had never imagined the pain that would be born by the survivor. He was glad Sarah had gone first.

They had promised each other there would be no extravagance. No costly funeral. No viewing. No embalming. They shared a fear of premature burial and had agreed no one would be called for three days.

Gavin was prepared to spend those days right here. On his knees. With his beloved.