Representational image. iStockI open the door and silently sneak in. No one sees me enter; no one hears the door creak. The room is deathly quiet as I approach the bed.
I glance at the gaunt face on the dark pillow. He searches the crowd around his bed, but I can’t meet those innocent eyes. His grieving family surrounds him with silent tears of farewell. His own cheeks have salty streams gone dry. His parched lips quiver and his mouth opens but there isn’t a sound. The silence is deafening. I fall on my knees. What a tender age! A bright future with a happy family – all those dreams, crushed. I can’t go through with it but this is the last time I’ll ever see him.
His mother soothes his creased forehead with a dry hand. She has no more tears to shed. She fondles his dark hair and unspoken words comfort him. No mother should bury her child. I wish I’d known her better – that strong woman. His father silently quakes behind his head. He hides his tears from his son. Relatives murmur supportive words and pat his shoulder. The man of the house. The breadwinner. If only he’d had more time with his son.
Five minutes, I was told. Time is up. I stand with a sigh and utter a quick prayer for strength. Now he finally sees me and tranquility sets in. His missing teeth sadden me as he says “I wondered who would take me away.” I look at his mother who has burst into heart-wrenching sobs. With a pang, I manage a smile and tell him “I’m covering for my husband.”
A doctor pushes past me as I leave the room, carrying the nine year old soul.
“Who are you? Who is your husband?”
“I’m Persephone, dear, Hades’ wife. Do you know him?”
