Sometimes, if I move a certain way, it recalls the exact physical feeling; the act of turning away, turning my back on Jeff and the eerie finality of walking out our bedroom door.
I got as far as the dining room when the phone I amazingly still had in my grip, rang.
911 was calling me.
Apparently, I was supposed to stay on the line until it could be confirmed help had arrived. Until I was securely handed off to the next step.
I opened the door to find a man already standing in place, ready to move in, so I stepped back.
I registered the familiar face and was bit stupefied by that.
That and the fact that the situation had changed into something; moving, forward, fast.
With the screen door behind him and one foot inside our home, he said something official-sounding announcing he was who he was.
I don’t think I moved.
He told me his partner so-and-so had gone back to the ambulance for more equipment, then bent to grab what was already piled up on the porch.
I don’t think I said anything.
Which may have accounted for the curious look he glanced my way while straightening up.
When his focused eyes took me in, he actually sort-of smiled.
“I thought I recognized this address…” he said.
I couldn’t blame him for the almost grin. Jeff was a memorable rider, always joking. Even with acute pancreatitis.
Even the night that Nannee blew her airhorn. There was a lot of laughter that night. From everyone – Jeff, me, the crew of two. Nannee, as well.
This would be his fourth trip to our home.
“Yes.” I agreed with his observation.
A full beat passed before I added, “I can’t wake him up.”
“Where is he?”
“In bed.”
He glanced around.
I realized he was waiting for direction, so I led the way.
Quote for the Week: 
knabble 