Death Looking into the Window of One Dying
As Andrew got sicker, he’d point to perceived smudges on our bedroom window. Nothing discernible to him. Not at first. But the decline in my partner’s health brought with it a growing realization. “It’s a face,” he told me. “It’s someone’s face.”
I saw nothing.
I sat with Andrew through it all. Every sleepless night. Every shriek of terror as nightmares tore through him. Every sobbing declaration that he wasn’t ready. In the mornings, the smudged face would be there, ever clearer to him. He was terrified of it. Still, I saw nothing.
Time went by while Andrew wasted away. I’d started staring more at the blackness beyond the window than at my dying partner. A portion of me found comfort in avoiding Andrew’s gaze. His was a gaze of sorrow. Of regret. He knew I’d be facing the same fate in the coming years. I begged him not to concern himself with such a thing, but deep down, in the vault of my soul, I resented him. His carelessness.