Six years ago the nightstand clock alarm was forever silenced.
Some days it was jarring dreams, bright sunlight, goddamn DST, that pulled him from sleep. It was less sleep and more boredom in prone position. Escape from his reality for those hours.
Other days his eyes would open from the unconditional surrender to unremarkable to-do lists that appeared in the night. Soap residue on the stone tiles at the bottom of the shower needed attention. The stainless steel island has finger pints. I’ll polish that again. Are seven dishes enough to run the dishwasher today? I can do that and empty it.
Does any of this matter? Those to-do’s were in reality useless moments of fighting boredom, the toxic boredom of an empty life and living. Life was just a repeat of the day before yesterday and the day after today. Nothing mattered.
On the good days he awoke to origami swans of memories neatly folded and tucked into the present. It was not sadness just acceptance that he was here and alone. But the swans were there and gave comfort to him alone. He held a single swan in his hand and flew it around the morning sun marveling at its joy
No matter the day the face on the nightstand clock was useless. It was always the same time. Why look? The reality was clear, there was really nothing to ever accomplish today or any day for that matter. The pretend there was something anything was wearing thin exposing the soft pink underbelly of a future.
He threw the duvet to the right, feet pushed left and planted on the floor. 38 steps to the kitchen embedded in memory. Each morning this repetitive genesis of the day. Any day, yielding the reality-nothing matters.
It was a loft in a condo and only 1,900 square feet. The 38 steps were not far or difficult. The smoothed and time darkened hardwood floors added an exclamation mark of attentiveness. The ever-present slip and broken hip gave each step an imagined Olympic degree of difficulty. If anything, the darkness of death would be on his terms not a broken hip. Gentle supportive braille like touches of walls or a doorframe edited his fear.
38 steps in the dark half the year. Muted morning light the other half. Feeling for the light switch, tapping it to softly illuminate the dinning room table. Never fumbling to find the switch yet struggling to wonder why it mattered. Mark knew where everything was, dark or not. The switch on the espresso machine was toggled and rumbled to life breaking the morning silence.
Those 38 steps became interminable and lonely. He still longed to reach for the stainless steel pitcher ready to steam milk for Donna’s latte. Then sit in the living room waiting for the machine to reach temp while reading his phone.
The last six years it was take a pee, return to bed, and pretend there was something anything in his life.
Yesterday the 38 vapid steps became a finite exercise defined by the letter the letter that arrived two days ago now supine on the polished stainless steel island. It was time.