A Little Left Behind

This cool evening, the wife sat in her comfy lounge chair, stroking the sleepy dog, and pondering the husbands return from hospital. Home by herself for the umpteenth time in the last year, she had watched him hospitalised again and again as he fought organ failure near the end of his life. For her to keep going was not much easier, what with arthritic-riddled bones, crackling lungs and a fragile disposition to contend with.

Thirsty now, she rose unsteadily, making her way over to the fridge with her walking frame. She reached inside for her malted milk. Standing next to it was the plastic bottle containing the last sips of the husband’s favourite fizzy drink. She refused to throw the remains down the sink believing that doing so would foreshadow that he would not be returning home this time.

Yet he did, two weeks later after another small miracle of recovery. First thing he did, was to settle into his own lounge chair opposite the wife and ask for a glass of fizzy drink. Again, rising slowly she went over and opened the fridge door. She lifted the bottle in the air for him to see and told him she had been saving it for him.

“Just throw it out,” he said without turning to look, “it’ll be flat by now.”