Tuesday morning

On Tuesday, at 7:30 a.m., they took Marie away. I stood in my doorway peeking, like Gladys Kravitz in Bewitched. I can't tell if they took her out dead or alive. When the ambulance came for my husband, they brought his remains downstairs in a black zippered bag, but Marie's stretcher looked white, so she may still be alive. They had told her three-and-a-half years, and it's been three-and-a-half years. I wonder how they know such things.

I prayed in the doorway but felt like an idiot. Marie has been dying while I'm sitting here across the street writing blog posts. I had her and her husband over for dinner a few times and walked her greyhounds every blue moon, and I suppose I will console myself with that when my conscience condemns me. One Sunday I even got her to open a Bible and pray, or at least listen to me pray. No follow-up. This morning's heavenward mumblings feel like turning in a paper past deadline, or like when I shouted the gospel at my grandmother through a coma.

A prophet once rebuked a king for striking an arrow to the ground only three times (2 Kings 13). He said just for that he would only have middling victory over his enemies, because of his half-heartedness. "Because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold . . ." (Revelation 3:16). If I punched a time clock it would be easier. I have always appreciated structure; that's what was good about the café---no choices to make for six hours a day, no chance to phone or visit people, no need to exercise wisdom every second. If I had a 9-to-5 job I wouldn't be constantly hounded by the question of perfection of the work versus the life.

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