A Delicate Matter

Love is the past, present, and future; so is grief.

Rita adjusted her black gloves.

"You should really wear the coat."

"I don't need it," she said snappishly. "And I don't want it. Now stop it."

"It's going to rain! You're just getting over COVID. You shouldn't risk the damp like this."

Rita turned on him, her cheeks red with the rouge of anger. "I told you to knock it off! I'll wear what I wear," she spat at him, adjusting the veil. "It's not for you, anyway. It's out of respect for Bickford."

"He's not there; he won't be there. You've got to accept this."

Her anger flashed again, then collapsed. Her voice was hoarse whisper. "Don't you think I know that?"

How could he have stopped fighting, she wondered. Didn't he want to stay, didn't he know how much I needed him? She murmured it aloud: "How could he do this to me..."

"To us..."

She turned away, fighting to hide the thought in her eyes: It should have been you. But she hadn't turned fast enough; he had seen.

"Cancer doesn't care who it takes, and it doesn't let us choose, either."

She was silent, straightening her black dress, making sure she would look perfect for the funeral. Will I be able to look at him? My baby boy lying in state like the prince I knew him to be? Will I be able to be strong as they lower him...lower him... Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not yet. She checked her gloves again and straightened her posture even more. She murmured: "I can do this. For him."

She heard the rustle of the chair behind her, the door begin to creak closed, his quiet murmur.

"I'm sorry it wasn't me, Mama."



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