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Geekfiction has the Summer Reading Fic-A-Thon going on right now, and I am posting this story based upon the prompt of Edna St. Vincent Millay.
My Candle
For some months, thoughts on my existence have embodied five basic areas: life, love, profession, illness, and death. My summation is that life is incredible – each day is enlightening – love is impenetrable – our bond forever strengthening – profession is tangible – I cannot take it with me – illness is treatable – but it takes a lot of fighting. Death is incurable; there's no pretending that one can escape this certain ending. Death is a thought that has always lingered in my mind – once more a passing curiosity than an ever-present constant. However, with time comes change, and with change comes adaptation. I have adapted to the fact that I will not live forever, and I may die any day – even today.
I'm lying in a bed again;
they're taking off my shoes.
Solemn, is my best friend –
he has more to lose.
My clothes go in the cupboard,
my necklace on the table.
He'd hoped I would recover;
I know I am not able.
Illness races through me,
from which I can't evade.
I have failed to break free
or level its stockade.
I'm burning at both ends,
fighting for my life.
Body's too weak to mend,
he'll be without a wife.
A clock's ticking hands,
passing of the time.
Visits from the Sandman,
Mother reading Goose's rhymes.
Sitting in a shelter,
heading off to school.
Meeting my love – weltered –
his eyes covered in wool.
Wearing our gold,
his smile beaming pride.
Together we'd grow old,
forever at our sides –
he'll always be my haven.
Sleep I'll now oblige – perhaps –
I'll lay beneath memory laden
sky and drift into a nap.
She will not last the night.
Breaths of sleep that comforted on early mornings when I'd study her at peace are now a bleak timer, steadily ticking down to her end. Instead of awaiting its chime that dinner's ready, I'm taunted with the reality that my wife's life is done.
Done. The days of spending too many hours at work but somehow managing to remember to leave evidence behind and guide each other home. I drew her warm baths. She made me hot chocolate and carted me off to bed.
Done. The days of playing with Bruno by the lake and hoping he wouldn't run off with her flip-flops again, knowing he would; like I, he liked her better.
Done. The days of loving her late in the afternoon – her candles scenting the air, my eyes unwavering from her – my candle.
Those days have passed – replaced with grieving, reasoning, and accepting. Her flame has flickered, ebbed by illness' debilitating uphill climb. I cared for her every need, said I would give her anything – but time I am without.
I've foreseen who's won.
My candle has burned out.