Livelocity

My husband of 52 years snores lightly in his hospital bed, wincing occasionally from the fall that landed him here. I dab a white washcloth in the ice bucket on the little wheeled stand separating him from the blinking lights and beeping monitors and his wheelchair. The cold to his temples makes him groan. Perhaps he’s dreaming and it’s not the pain. I kick off my shoes and climb into the mechanical bed, folding myself around him like a spoon. Don’t die, please, I whisper.

My eyes burn from the pervasive disinfectants. I close them, but only for a second. Behind my eyes I see him, the brazen high school jock asking me to the Senior Dance when I am just a sophomore. He blushes while pinning the gardenia corsage to my strapless satin gown, stuttering how beautiful I am. I see our first awkward kiss, smearing my Tangee lipstick, which makes my father consult my mother; see him young and strong, golden hair catching the light at our beach wedding; see him cuddle both our babies and counsel them as teens; see him working long hours so I can write; see us splayed, Mojitos beside us, on the Jamaica beach we chose for our 40th wedding anniversary; see him after his back surgery whizzing around in his wheelchair, his wispy grey hair blowing about, still moving, still moving. I open my eyes and draw him closer, our years reduced to the blink of my eye.