Andy

We could tell the end was near and Ellie stayed with Andy in the chair. She was the one that held him in her arms when he was born, and now, she held him in her arms as Andy awaited death. Ellie quietly sung a lullaby to her son. Her voice so soft and soothing, it comforted me as well.

It wasn't quite three in the afternoon when her song faded into stillness. Ellie looked up at me, her face wet with tears. "He's gone..."

I turned my head away for a few seconds then looked back at Ellie holding Andy's body. I nodded in confirmation. I walked just outside his room. I caught the eye of a nurse standing by a desk. No words were spoken. She knew.

Two nurses entered the room and pulled the door closed. I leaned up against the wall. I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to prevent the tears I felt building in my eyes from breaking free. I heard Ellie call out. A long mournful cry of despair filled the tiny room. I bit down on my lips—hard. I clinched my fists. Then I felt my legs melt turning into liquid. My back slid down the smooth teal green walls 'till my head rested between my knees. My mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of images that flashed before my eyes. I thought of Andy and I wept.

******

They say that the older you get the faster time seems to go by. I guess that's so. Weeks now seem to go by like days and I noticed I'm tearing the pages from the calendar more often. Although time seems to go by quicker, we've both slowed down.

Andy's death damn near ripped us apart. Ellie fell into a deep depression. I thought for a while she and I just weren't going to make together. I thought about having an affair but I kept my promise to Ellie. I've never held another hand but hers. Slowly, Ellie got better. Our bond became even stronger.

I don't recall when it was, perhaps five, maybe eight years after Andy died that Mick passed away. Mick was right, as he always was. I had found my passion; my wife, my children and my love of writing. In the ensuring years, I've written twenty some books, many of them on the New York Times bestseller list.

That little ass wipe of a photographer, Terry, got fired from the paper. He designs women's clothing in New York. He's worth millions. And Sue Ling? I wonder about her now and then, especially late at night while Ellie is lying beside me asleep. I heard she gave one of the guys she dated in the pressroom a nasty dose of syphilis. Ten years ago I was told she was dying from AIDS related complications. I'm sure she gone by now.

As for Ellie and me, she bore us four children in our marriage; each one precious and unique. We're grandparents now. We have a good life together. There's plenty of life to live and Ellie and I aren't done yet. We plan on sticking 'round long enough to hold our first great-grandchild in our arms. Life has been good to Ellie and me.

I turned my collar to the cold and damp when I felt the familiar warmth of Ellie's hand on mine. The day wasn't as warm now as it was back then. We placed a single white rose on Andy's head stone; just as we have done every year for the past thirty-nine years.

For you see, when Andy died, we agreed we wouldn't remember the day of his passing. But instead, we'd remember him on a different day. We chose that extraordinarily warm spring day, April 29, 1972, the day I pulled a little blonde haired boy out of a fridge duck pond. The same little boy that captured my heart and opened my eyes to love...