The old woman felt a tugging, burning sensation sweep from her fingertips to her shoulder. At last, she thought. Fate has been skirted far too long. The burning turned into a fury of pain as it coursed through the veins of her left arm. She sat back in her old-but-not-yet-fashionably-vintage chair and waited.

Her end was near. It had been a long time coming. She straightened the hem of her skirt and swept a few cracker crumbs from her blouse. She wanted to look presentable when they found her.

Hours passed and shadows stretched out across the hardwood floor like a lethargic cat finally waking from sleep. The amber light pouring through the window struck her face and she woke confused.

Blast it all, she thought. Certainly I was done-for that time.

She sighed and placed her arthritic feet firmly on the ground. Gripping the arm of her chair, she tediously lifted herself upright.

The old woman gave up living after her 70th birthday. Her children, all in disparate parts of the country, had their own jobs, children, and mortgages to keep them company. The only company she wanted now was a nice forever-nap.

She still lived inside the dilapidated house where she was born. She ate pieces of bread with cold tea and focused on her stories. Changing channels pleased her more than trips to the bathroom or phone calls. The world is a scary place now, she told herself. Solace came in the form of infomercials and gushy television programs. At least they were reliable.

Shivering, the old woman wrapped her paisley moo-moo more tightly around her frail body.

She thought back to that time in the restaurant. Steak marsala, mashed potatoes piled as high as the eye could see, and a vinegar based salad dressing that made her cough. It happened suddenly.

I am choking.
The realization brought tears of joy to her eyes. At long last! She mused. Her throat closed tighter and tighter as the chunk of meat stuck in her esophagus attempted to dislodge itself. Stay put, little one. You are a godsend.

And involuntary ruttle escaped her lips. Damn it all, she thought, as patrons across the restaurant turned to face her. That woman is choking! A hussy in heels and ridiculous gold jewelry shouted.

A man in a business suit rushed over and began to vigorously pump her diaphragm. So close. I was so close. The restaurant provided her with a free dessert, as if that could alleviate her bitter disappointment. I don’t think I can choke on pudding. Poop.

Dragging herself back to the present moment, the old woman turned off the story box and shuffled to bed. Another night. Another still, dark night to spend alone. Sleep came quickly.

She woke to a cacophony of noise outside her window. Confounded birds, always muddling those last sweet moments of blissful, empty dreaming.

Tea, toast, tube. Bathroom, tube, nap. Tube, tuna, tea. Tube, sleep.
Maybe I’ll water the plants? No, they’re already dead. What about raking the leaves off the front stoop? If only my damned legs would let me balance upright for more than 5 minutes. No, there was nothing to be done, and if there was, there would be no point in doing it.

Every day without fail, days stretched into years. Her life read like an atheist’s church schedule.

She died late one night in the middle of a warm spring shower. Sleeping in her paisley moo-moo with a cup of cold tea at attendance, the old woman felt ice on her brow. Her vision became blurred and corroded. Smells and pictures came to her. Far off she could see a tree, some flowers and reeds, rustling in a calm, fragrant breeze.

A path of blood-red, copper and sunshine leaves in autumn.

Gusts of twilight wind over a brisk New England sea.

Stars burning through a cold black sky.

Clouds like cotton candy suspended in blue so pure it could break your heart.

Her eyes rolled back and forth in their sockets, quaking from the effort of recalling images so tempting and so long forgotten.

A cool rain traveling through the mountains, scenery moving with multi-shaded clouds, dropping ripples of light through rivers and streams.

Fireflies suspended in glass, flitting and spinning like a ballerina on a broken music box.

The tingle of taste buds as they experience the sweet bitterness of lemonade. The sound of a lonely violin carrying across the wind. Embers scattering on the beams of fire as it licks the dry branches of winter. The feeling of vastness when looking down on the world from a craggy light house atop a white-dust seaside.

The warmth of a baby in her arms. The smell of flowers. The sound of birds.

Where was I? She thought. What was I doing? The birds in my window were calling out for attention. I ignored their song. They were warning me. They knew this would happen.

All of my life I was dying. And only now that I am dying have I learned how to live.

Her forever-nap was upon her then, but not without dreams.