The Simplicity of Dying
an excerpt

Mason grows tired.
It is Fall here within my mind. As the summer heat permeates every corner of this room. Heavy pressing. As if to hasten his departure.
His body frail. Withering before my eyes.
This man. This bed.
Moments scroll past as if I am living them and he just sits and watches.
He is sleeping now. His breath labored his fingers twitch now and again.

I have come to realize, I miss his wit. That, too, has withered away. Even his biting sarcasm.
He always said he'd die in the same bed that he produced life. I thought it strange at the time.
And now, his circle is about complete.

Choosing to sit here and watch.
He abhors this. He finds a sadistic payback for all the wrongs he may have participated throughout his life. Those that his perception were wrong or against all that we were.
At one time.

Like I said, his perception.
Maybe there is a sadistic quality about it. Maybe I do want to watch. Justice due? Or just letting go all of which we thought was evil. When it comes to this point, it all appears so silly.
So dramatic.

He hates my hair today.
Inside I could only giggle. On the outside I blamed the lady at the salon. She wouldn't listen to me.
That was enough to send him on a creative commentary on the ills of society.
I knew this.
I enjoy listening to him.
It fills my very being with life. Hearing his voice as it resonates.
I make up scenarios. Just to hear him bellow. To capture the man in my head. Wanting to remember his voice. So that it may never leave me.
I have decided that when it is my time, and lay here, I want to hear him calling my name.
I am not quite sure of an after life. Hell or Heaven.
I like to think we will meet again.
Does that make it less painful? Am i creating a justification to ease my loss?

He is leaving me soon and there is not a fucking thing I can do.
Fuck this. fuck that. Then he grabs my hand as he naps and squeezes. As if he could feel that tension even more so as he prepares.

Mason would always be a dutiful father. He was the friend. The one the children climbed upon and told all their secret wishes.
Mason would tumble the ideas in his head for weeks at a time. Lo and behold there was a creative story in the sentence of a five year old.
I wonder now if the children even realize that his books were taken from those chats.

His eyes are blue. SO blue I want to dive in and swim in his mind. From the moment they caught me in his gaze.
I still can not figure out what he saw in me. There is no beauty within this body. No outward strike a pose...and yet we were drawn together.
Women of all stations would hover around him, he'd gaze up over them and just give a look to me.
My heart still skips when I think of those moments.

Those moments...our story begins here.