Page 18 of The Strawberry Field
Vacuum. Me.
I head outside for the exterior walk-through, still in slippers, my coffee cooling in my hand. The outside is worse. The windows need repainting.
Call painter—again.
From the yard, I spot a few shingles missing on the roof.
Call roofer. Check for leaks.
The trees have grown wild, branches dipping dangerously close to the power lines.
Call tree service.
The grass is patchy and brown in places. The landscaping company my father used is clearly still in place but no longer trying.
Call landscaper. Request fertilizer and reseed.
I make my way toward the back of the property, following the flagstone path to the dock. The lake is calm this morning, the light low and golden. The dock, however, is in rough shape. Paint is peeling, and several floorboards are warped beyond salvage.
Call carpenter. Replace dock boards.
Green algae climbs the posts near the waterline.
Call pressure washer.
Two old wooden chairs still sit at the edge of the dock, their once-smooth arms bleached and split from sun and rain. They look… tired.
I picture my parents sitting here. I hear the soft murmur of their voices, see their silhouettes in fading light, wine glasses resting on the wide chair arms. I remember the way my mother leaned into my father’s shoulder. The way he always glanced at her when she laughed.
They talked often about retiring here. After Tommy and I left home. They planned for it. Dreamed of it.
The memory hits me so hard now it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
Tears rise fast. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, but more follow.
I haven’t let myself think about them recently. I’ve kept the grief boxed up, hidden behind the urgent chaos of hospital shifts and then the fog of Michael’s death. But it’s here now. Just beneath the surface.
A shallow grave.
And it doesn’t take much to dig through.
Loneliness wraps around me, heavy and absolute. At my age, it wouldn’t be unusual to have a family, a partner, children, a small circle of people to love and protect.
But I chose differently.
Or maybe life chose for me.
I gave everything to my career, and now the career is gone. The people I loved are gone. I wonder what it would feel like to be worried right now, not just for myself, but for someone else. For children. For a husband.
Maybe I’m lucky.
Maybe it’s easier not to love anyone when everything is falling apart.
I lower myself into one of the dock chairs. The morning sun is warm on my face. I close my eyes.
I think of the patients I’ve watched die these past months—so many of them elderly, scared, alone. I think of the families who loved those people, and how horrible it had been for them not to be with their loved one when they passed away, both for the family members and the patients. The desperate phone calls, the impossible decisions, the unbearable goodbyes spoken over speakerphones.
It is truly unthinkable that we are living in a world that looks so unfamiliar, a world where you might have to die alone, except for heavily masked and protected nurses and doctors who know you as sick and helpless.
