The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-five Sounds Champagne Pink

I know it's customary to give the dead a pass but the timing seemed more than coincidental. I didn't see him again. O.k., I avoided him. But Doug died soon after and the spell was completely broken. There was an increasing glare of images and colours till my peaceful hospice turned into a continuous loop slide show from a charnel house. Just too painful to watch. I felt terrible. Worse, like a deserter because I knew I just couldn't stay any longer.

Staff were understanding. They put it more diplomatically but they'd seen it all before. Burnout. The reward for trying to help. No proof but I think they took bets on how long volunteers would last. I found out they even had a grimly humorous term for it - volunteermination. In my last act I slipped in late one night to empty my locker of its vigil vestiges. Coffee cup. Sweater. Slippers. Paperbacks. It was very quiet. Didn't run into a soul. Then, as I was leaving, I just happened to pass the room where my wife had died and noticed it was empty again. On an impulse I went in and sat down next to the bed. It was very dark, very quiet. Very peaceful. While I sat there I tried to remember the colors of her voice from the better times. That sensuous mauve. It just wouldn't come back to me. The old sand through the fingers thing. I tried mightily but I just couldn't recall it. Couldn't will it to come back. I could feel tears crowding up trying to get past the lump in my throat. Then someone coughed. Shit! There was someone right there! In the room with me. I looked up. I was startled. Then embarrassed. But the embarrassment didn't survive the jolt. There she was, standing in shadows on the far side of the room, looking exactly the way I remembered her. Dressed exactly the way I remembered her.

"Hey there," she said through the side of her mouth unoccupied by a cigarette, "looking for a job?"

I fled.