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POETIC PROSE: Entry 2, Chapter 2… Why The Widow Wears Black
It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.
This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.
An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.
This was then… Real life. Real death.
In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.
Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.
This is a True Life Story.
So, it goes like this . . .
Entry 2, Chapter 2
This kind of air is rarely chewed by youthful lungs, yet in and out it goes.
This air is special. Not in the way you normally assume the state of special to be.
But, it is special, all right. The density and the dark of it, almost too thick
to breathe. Like a wet foam you are forced to suck in, because there is nothing
else in the room to suck.
So you drag it in, this thick froth of death. Gagging it in. Logically repulsed. And even though you exhale – to force the lot out of you – buried it sticks.
Staking itself to the depth of you.
Part of you now.
Eventually, the little bubbles of foam slowly pop, revealing copious gasses
that will linger in your thoughts. Little by little this spume dries like
paint. Then you too, will be caked with this coating of primal casualty.
And now, this moment, this air has touched Scott in its own leaded way. Poisonous
The woman. The employee. She must have steadied him just in case he’s a “fainter.”
God, she must hate the fainters, man. Without notice, down they go, their heads
bouncing on the linoleum. “Crack,” sounding like hard boiled Easter eggs
whacked on the pavement.
And then, she must be ready for the “pukers” with a vomit bucket close at hand,
just in case he blows.
She must be used to this routine – catch the fainters and dodge the pukers. Her
suit is probably still spotted from yesterday’s viewing.
It must be as though she’s watching glass shatter every day – no longer shocked by
the calamity of it and bored of its cleanup.
No wonder there’s no carpeting in here.
Then she’s left standing there rubbing her elbow. Bruised from its perpetual
grabbing by relative survival.
She must be rethinking this “day job,” for sure.
Then she raises her arm. Reaching. Then pulling.
The air wafts as the coffin lid drops.
Almost abruptly it falls.
And, it’s down.
How careless she is, this gal and her 9-to-5 employment.
That last bit of coffin breath has now puffed out onto him and he steps away.
Instinctively, he wipes it off his clothes like a layer of crumbs dusting him
from a deathday cake.
Casket wheezing. Such a chilly draft in that unvented little room.
That moment is now tattooed on him. The tangible whisper of that passing coffin.
Yes. Tattooed. Because that moment will last him a whole lifetime.
Coffin air. Void of any of the oxygen that he’s come to know. It could’ve tried to
smother him. To suffocate him. To smear the sparkle out of him. So, he hacks it
What else can he do?
Though, click. It is locked there, like a cork in his throat.
That casket closed with a thud.
And, thank God I did not hear it.
THE CASKET CLOSED with a thud, though I did not hear it.
… until next time.
Finalist and 1st Runner-Up in Broad Humor Film Festival Screenwriting Contest
Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011
Top 20 Finalist Atlanta Film Festival
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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