*

The man wakes up earlier than he wanted to, groaning as he turns onto his side, his knees popping as he stands up mostly straight from his side of the bed. The other side is empty, as it has been for … for how many years? He could tell you. She died … he wishes he could say that she died peacefully. At least she didn’t die alone. The point is that he keeps to his side of the bed, as he always has. The house creaks. A squirrel patters across the roof. The man goes to pee again.

*

To call the house lonely seems maudlin to him. Instead, he calls it quiet, quiet as he once hoped it would be. (Praised be the G-d who delays what we hope for.) He can tidy it whenever he wants now, can arrange it however he wants now. He eats right out of the pots & pans now, something she never would have allowed. This freedom is … it is an empty freedom. No, he thinks, it is a pitiable freedom. To think he once wanted exactly this, to think he once rolled his eyes at her wishes for their home.

*

His pajamas are thin, near-transparent at the elbows and knees. His slippers are thin, like walking on moth’s wings. He knows that others have it worse, and he is self-conscious of how frail he is, which he swears is less frail than he looks. He has the kind of old man tics & tells he once laughed at. Cardigans & vests, words just out of his grasp, ideas that lose their shape. He shaves & dresses & brushes his teeth without looking in the mirror, so disorienting is the fact of this sallow, weathered face looking back at him. How much older will he look in a year? in five? in ten? He can hardly imagine. He once could. Does he smell old? Would he even be able to tell?

A man of his age, wifeless, spends his days with self-lacerating questions like these. There are tasks & chores but there are no … [say it] there are no stakes in this life anymore. He tells himself that there is still meaning in it.

*

Today walking to the kitchen, he sees a shaft of light piercing brighter than usual across the back deck through the window. A celestial finger pointing into the quiet room. To call it a living room seems like a sick joke, he thinks. He thinks about words a lot. He turns his head, yawning his vision to the shelf by the piano, illumined by this shaft of sunrise. The morning’s celestial finger spotlights a photo of the two of them. A candid photo. Before cell phones. Before marriage. Before children. They are young & beautiful. Her deep brown eyes framed by her thick brown hair. Her legs crossed with effortless elegance. He is talking; she is laughing. He remembers.

The dog’s claws tick a familiar rhythm across the floor. The man swells with joy, knowing the dog will brush his leg affectionately soon. There he is now. Good boy.

He pats the dog roughly, lovingly as he tightens his robe & slips on the dog’s leash. He takes a plastic bag from beneath the kitchen sink, folded just as she always folded them, just where she always kept them. The leash on his wrist, he pulls on a grey wool hat and, just so his kids don’t worry, pockets his cell phone.

He unlocks the door. It’s gonna be a beautiful day after all.

_{This draft was inspired by Buddhism’s four noble truths. Image source.}