I can feel myself aging.
The same slippers go on the same feet every morning.
It’s 6:30am, the only time I can wake up anymore.
I pour the same cup of coffee as yesterday and the day before.
What was I to do today? The sun was rising. The colorful but boring rays it cast onto the breakfast table didn’t matter. The rose bushes lining my backyard, once perfected by the old woman, didn’t matter. This shitty Folgers didn’t matter.
“It must be nice to be old,” said my young self. “Nothing to worry about. Just take medicine advertised on the so official-looking blue and red grids on TV and worry about nothing.”
An early morning used to present me with a display of wonder and freshness. Now it signifies the start of a new daypart. Time for the news.
Then time for soaps. Judy, Maury, Springer – all the daytime classics – perpetuating irrelevant quarrels and failed relationships for all to reminisce over on TV Land.
Time was my only enemy. She graced my life with contrast and affection. And then fate took her away. More like a stroke, really. My life was once again single-sided. Plain, usual, day-to-day.
So maybe the heart attack phobia isn’t so bad at this point. Nothing intrigues me anymore, not without her.
I down the last of the day’s pills and case them with a Centrum. To my good health, pharmaceutical industry.
Shortness of breath. Upper arm, now jaw pains. Tightness.
This is it, I mumble. Good riddance.