I dropped the scissors, suddenly unable to see the paper behind my watery eyes.
This was too hard. It was too soon. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough.
I collapsed onto the sofa and glanced at the machine. I had come to associate the machine with death, with sadness, with my own personal hell.
I reached up and impatiently swiped errant tears as they streaked carelessly down my cheeks. It was time to move on. It had been nearly 18 months since she had died. It wasn’t healthy to continue thumbing through old photo albums and drinking numerous six packs of beer, wallowing in self-pity and loneliness.
I forced fresh air into my lungs and snatched the scissors once more. I finished making the tabs with my telephone number on them and exhaled slowly. I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath.
I picked up the black ballpoint pen. My hand hovered inches from the paper and I narrowed my eyes, determined to see this through to the bitter end.
“Wife Died.” I swallowed the bitter lump of bile back down my throat. She was gone. I would never hear her sweet lilting voice ever again. I saw her face in my dreams every night, but the dreams were fading around the edges, like an old photograph left out in direct sunlight for too long.
“Used 1 month. 3 piece 3 wheeled scooter …” I suddenly couldn’t write anymore. Our hopes had been dashed – killed, like her.
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