Journal of a Living Lady #190

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

It isn't a large room, probably twelve by twelve feet at most. Buddy and I spend much of our time there. Like most normal people, we sleep in this space. It is also the area to which we most often retreat for reading, watching television, or discussing world events. 

 

There are plenty of other spaces in the house to do any of the above, but somehow the bedroom always beckons and we come. It is tight and cozy. A queen-size bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers, a night stand and an up-right jewelry cabinet line the walls. When Buddy recently added a compact stereo system, it was a challenge to make room for it. He managed by blocking the single window. I will allow that during these dark winter days, but not come spring. When the birds start singing again, he will have to suspend our television from the ceiling with his 32,000th stainless-steel wire. Buddy bluntly states that this wire, discovered during his airline mechanic days, is strong enough to hold me up. Obviously they don't teach romantic language in trade schools.

 

For now, cramped space in the bedroom isn't a problem.  Buddy and I often drift off to sleep with the likes of Anne Murray and Floyd Cramer. Ironically, a thirty-eight revolver is always within reach.

 

Comfortable and secure, the bedroom is our personal sanctuary from the world. Now that we have up-graded to wireless Internet, I can click away on my laptop while Buddy snores. The Siamese cats recline comfortably and undisturbed at our feet.

 

Our bedroom has always been our refuge. Even years ago, if  the bedroom door was shut, the children in our home knew not to intrude. Oh, that we could communicate as much to our friends.

 

One dear lady, getting up in years,  felt so comfortable invading our house at will that she opened the bedroom door one late morning and nearly startled us to death. We now have locks on the bedroom door. Three of them, counting the built-in push button on the knob.

 

Sometimes Buddy and I role-play while lying side by side. What if he were the one with cancer and I was the caretaker? What if I were the practical spouse and he was the dreamer?

 

Often Buddy and I drop off to sleep in the midst of conversation. The last time that happened I had an unforgettable dream.

 

Buddy was lying in our bed in this same bedroom and, alas, he was dying. In his agony, he smelled his favorite treat baking in the oven, chocolate-chip cookies with pecans. With the aroma drifting into the bedroom, he mustered all the strength he could and pulled himself up from the bed.

 

With great effort and gasping for air, Buddy slowly made his way out of our bedroom and then stopped. He leaned back on the sturdy frame to steady himself and then glanced around. Ah!  There on the kitchen counter were multitudes of  chocolate-chip cookies spread out on waxed paper to cool.

 

His feeble mind wondered. Was this the final act of loving devotion from me, his wife of 38 years?  With a determined lunge, Buddy hurled  himself toward the cookies. I watched incredulously as his dry tongue attempted to wet his parched lips. Obviously the imagined taste of my cookies offered a tiny measure of pleasure to him.

 

Buddy's withered hand trembled on its way to a cookie near the edge of the counter. The stuff of dreams turned me into a crusty ole soul.  I quickly smacked Buddy's grasping hand with my spatula.

 

"Stay out of those," I said defiantly.  "Those cookies are  for the funeral."

 

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nancyk@alltel.net