Campfire Stories

cropped-boken1.pngWhen glass gets broken

I am reading a note, in my husband’s thin blue handwriting, it starts.

  • ask about prescription
  • appointment at doctors?
  • sick days?

I feel the familiar prickly sting start at the back of my eyes, I do not want to cry so I put his list back down on the table by the bed and continue to hoover.  My husband is in the shower and I have a few minutes to clean up a little, take away old flowers, change the sheets and suck away crumbs.  He can not tolerate the noise, so I work quickly.  The water stops and I turn the hoover off and hit the button that pulls back the chord.  The black line pulls the plug back quickly, the machine and I feel we should not be here. I pull the door shut quietly and wince at the loud click of the lock as I leave.  I do not want him to see how upset I am. Continue reading “Campfire Stories”