He released a breath as though he had finally reached shore.
For ten days, I was his wife.
I cooked while he gave instructions from a chair.
We watched old movies.
I read aloud whenever his eyes became tired.
On the eighth night, I found him holding a worn novel against his chest.
Its cover had faded beyond recognition.
“What book is that?” I asked.
“My favorite.”
“May I see?”
He tightened his arms around it like a shield.
“Not yet.”
I teased him for keeping secrets.
He smiled but refused to hand it over.
Carl died two mornings later with my hand beneath his.
His final breath was so gentle that I did not recognize it as the end until the room remained still.
Fewer than twenty people attended the funeral.
Most were former students and old friends.
One person placed a paper lunch bag beside the coffin.
Another left a blue birdhouse.
