Mandy pulls out delicate items—silk blouses, rayon skirts, summer weight T shirts that could shrink in the heat of the dryer. All the while yesterday’s conversation with Eric’s widow plays and re-plays. He was alive yesterday morning. Donna seemed hopeful, unconcerned even. Or was she? Was she unaware, naive, in denial? Or was she softening it for me? Mandy wonders.
She opens the washer, tosses in bulky stuff: bath towels, blue jeans, flannel pajamas, plaid shirts—then notices a sweatshirt dribbled with salsa.
Death lurks with a horrific anticipation. Pain of course, but even worse, loss of dignity, seepage of fluids—vomit, piss, shit. We claim we want to go quick and neat, no fuss, no embarrassment. We think we want this for our loved ones too, but no, no, we don’t, not really, do we? We want time at any cost. More time. More. Because the time of absence is unrelenting and long.
Mandy’s mother and best friend, both gone now. Her crying shoulders, her only ones. She could tell them anything. Things she can’t even tell her husband, things she certainly wouldn’t tell her son. Oh, well, it’s not like any of it is all that important. Just stuff. Stuff that might reveal her pettiness. Her fears. And a low-level anxiety, nearly constant, flowing like water, into limbs, chest, every crevice and pit, wherever gravity pulls it.
She grabs her husband’s sweatshirt and stares at the stain. Dark red like blood, but not blood.
Is there a more festive word than “salsa?” The center L makes a little twist in your tongue between two hissing s’s. Salsa! Chile Colorado, Chile Verde, reds and greens, chips and guac, sangria and red berries, proof of party! This shirt needs pre-soaking.
Life is short; or is it?
Life is hard; or is it?
Life is one long cliché:
too much thinking
not enough doing.
Or is it the other way around?
Photo by Nong on Unsplash