This is the last of my confessions. Mostly silent for 13 years; hesitant for dark humor.
At the time, not even an iota amusing. But, you know the bottom line as well as I do:
he would have laughed.
Despite what should have been a series of solid physical confirmations, I still wasn’t sure.
I mean I suspected I was sure, but surely there had to be some way to be surely sure.
I needed to be absolutely sure. I didn’t want to tell the EMTs that he was dead if he wasn’t really dead.
After all, it had been getting harder and harder to wake him up, so maybe….
I couldn’t let them just assume he was dead and take him away.
I faintly heard the siren.
Desperation encouraged denial. I launched one final effort for conclusion.
I reached out and squeezed.
Nothing at all.
Nothing. at. all.
That was the catalyst. My epiphanic moment, framed with the possibility of tarnished guilt, dully matted with automatic apologetic thoughts.
I believe I was rather rational. Calm, while mentally running through the untimed Sunday morning sequence of events from opening the bedroom door to believing in my own final absolute surety.
I relived it all – this short period of my life flashed before me like I was the one who’s life was ending.
That’s when my internal irrational being woke up and spoke up and slapped me.
A solid smack to the back of my head, snapping it forward, then back, as the blinking-red ticker-tape of panic resumed its scroll.
“Oh, my God. What if there’s bruising? They’re going to think I abused him!”
I hadn’t yet conjured a remedy for that, when the knock came.
“They’re here,” I announced and promptly hung up the phone.
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