6:39 a.m. - 2022-07-28
Milton

He was in his late-80's when she'd moved out here to attend nursing school and be near him in what were probably, statistically, his final years. But Milton was spry and hale when we were introduced. When they erected a guest house on the property for her to live in, he (being a retired contractor) built every bit of the kitchen and bathroom cabinetry by himself in his home shop, and did all the trim-work. And then helped us move her stuff out of storage to furnish the place... But that was eight years ago, maybe. And she couldn't stick around forever. Anyway, her stepmother (who is younger than her dad) broke her back last week and is in the hospital. Milton was supposed to visit her today and drop off a phone-charger and a nightgown but he didn't show, and couldn't be reached by telephone...

“Dude don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead dude”, I thought as I pulled into the gravel driveway of their ranch-style home outside of town. The glass storm-door was closed, but the entry door was open and I could see into the house. I rang the bell.

“Hey Milton, it's Ernie...Emily's friend. We met a few years ago.”, he nodded but didn't recognize me. “She asked me to come check on you.”

“Oh? Well I'm fine”, he smiled and opened the door.

“You were supposed to take a few things over to Judith this morning, and they were just worried about you.”

“Judith? Well where is she?” He was genuinely curious.

“She's in the hospital.”

“OK I suppose I could head over there...”

“They tried calling you this morning.”

“Oh yeah, I heard the phone ring”, this elicited this biggest smile yet and his blue eyes twinkled, as if he was the only one in on a joke.

I dialed his daughter, handed him the phone and went inside to make sure he had food. The kitchen was immaculate, as was the whole house, and the pantry and fridge were well-stocked. Milton too looked fine—a clean, pressed plaid-shirt tucked into a sharp pair of gray corduroys, white hair combed back neatly. I found Judith's phone charger and, driving to the hospital on my way back to work, wondered: what's it like in there, in his head. To wake up, make toast and putter around the property all day, with no idea where your wife of forty years was? And with no sense of immediate concern? Is it like being high? Being high and looking for your keys but then getting distracted by a pile of coffee-table books...being so suddenly immersed in Spanish paintings from The Prado or Japanese detail architecture or the snakes of Texas that you forget all about your keys and why you needed them, even? I know it's so hard on the family to see everything they love about someone compromised—disappearing bit by bit. I mean, it pains me when my dad (an all-around ironmind who at 74 is still working as an aerospace exec) retells a story or goes on the kind of rambling sentimental tangent that has us side-eyeing each other at the dinner table...

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