To My Husband who Made his Hospice Doctor Laugh

I remember,

two handsome men,

both — over six feet tall.

One was you, Honey.

the other — your Hospice doctor.

The doctor came to our Miami condo

every week,

to check on you,

and all you did — you two — was laugh.

And, I remember,

the golden rays of sun

or was that your Aura?

There was so much light

in our living room

where your bed was!

We met through a PenPal magazine,

eighteen years before.

And at that time,

I lived in rainy Riga, Latvia.

You — in Miami.

I still have all of our letters.

Handwritten, lined paper.

Dark blue ink.

It was your second —

in which you said that

we were a great match and

we should get married.

My friend Natasha said he's a nutcase.

I'm a psychologist.

Johns Hopkins Grad, you said,

I can spot a match.

We met and married.

And from all the memories,

I cherish this one —

how you made your Hospice doctor laugh.

You — already bedridden,

stretched out on your bed,

in light blue boxers,

naked from the waist up, no shirt.

The touch of fabric was too painful.

The pain — unbearable —

the leading symptom of RSD

(Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy),

so much pain that some patients,

unable to cope, resorted to suicide,

and you laughed.

The doctor — no older than 45.

Broad shoulders.

A stethoscope around his neck.

He sat in our grey chair

and laughed.

You had ruffled pages

of the Miami Herald

strewn all over your bed

and dozens of opened books.

Your plastic urinal —

on the bedside table.

Opioid pills

in orange containers.

The stupid illness ate into

you nerves and bones.

And, only your blue eyes —

they were spared,

and your mind

and memory.

And, I could see —

the two of you enjoyed

each other’s company so much,

as if there was

nothing more important to do.

And there wasn't.

Only, when I took the doctor down

in the elevator —

the laughter stopped.

Your husband is amazing,

he'd say with sadness.

Yes, I know, I'd say.

Those were your final days.

You knew it. He knew it.

We all knew.

Honey, you’ve been gone

now over a decade.

No, I didn’t remarry.

As you predicted,

it's hard to match me.

Too independent.

Too irreverent.

All that you loved.

Do you miss me, Honey?

I miss you.

I miss your laughter.

I miss your golden light.