Epilogue:
I found the grinder and I took care of it.
Chapter Eight:
So…after thirty years of marriage, we separated. Although it was probably brain damage that caused him to say the breaking words, I could not get past the dismissiveness that caused the accident, nor the attitude and contempt that caused the dismissiveness.
Chapter Seven
On Sunday I barricaded myself in the spare bedroom, pinned a note on the door to be left alone, and thought about the past—how we had cared for each other through traumatic times and plotted adventures during good times. I thought about the future and how the one that had been walking through life with me was gone and I couldn’t see any way to get it back.
Chapter Six
Saturday evening, he announced, “I’m tired of taking care of you, and I don’t trust that you’ll ever take care of me.” Then he said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
Chapter Five
Very early on a Thursday morning in July, while playing with the puppy he ran headlong into the iron clothesline. He fell and stayed down—ten seconds? Ten minutes? I was asleep and didn’t see it happen. The mark on his forehead and mismatched pupils indicated another concussion—his sixth or seventh since we’d met.
Chapter Four
Somehow, it was already June and I was recuperating from ankle surgery. “Well, would you get it for me? I can do it,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re safe using the grinder. You know, because your foot is in a cast and you could lose your balance.”
“Would you take care of it then?”
“Yes, of course.” His eye roll meant “stop nagging.”
Chapter Three
Spring arrived. “Can we take care of that clothesline soon? I’m worried somebody will run into it and get hurt.” An audible scoff. “Nobody’s going to run into it.” I heard the derision. I always did. But he promised he’d take care of it.
Chapter Two
After 11 months, the final item on the to-do-before-winter list was to grind off the protruding arms of the clothesline. We didn’t need space for five lines and the height was perfect for injuring heads—specifically his head. I rarely run into things, but I was married to a careless man.
Chapter One
The new house was perfect for us as we eased into our retirement years—smaller house, smaller yard, quiet neighborhood. It wouldn’t take much to make it exactly right. We walked around, hand-in-hand pointing out things to be improved. He talked though options on fixing the short clothesline support, which was an easy fix. “We could cut it here and make a sleeve and raise it six inches. We could grind off the arms to make it more narrow. We could dig it out completely and put in something new. It’ll be a priority. I will take care of it. I promise.”