This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter will be labeled as to who is narrating.

So far, Jameson Petry meets seventy something, Iris. He is in the midst of a separation and she urges him to retain a lawyer. He accompanies Iris to her doctor to go over end of life care. He is sick at the thought of losing her but agrees to stand by her. She, in the meantime, has changed her will making him beneficiary. He has no idea. At their recent meeting for coffee, he gives her a poem he wrote especially for her.

*********************************

IRIS

Every few minutes I pull the poem out of my purse, re-reading it over and over. I'm still stunned at the thoughtful verse he wrote. The boy is extremely talented. No one has ever taken the time to write something specifically for me. Even Lou used Hallmark as his mouthpiece. It's the thought, I know, but this was like a beam of light putting me in the spotlight. I had to share it with no one.

Lou's picture sits on the end table next to the couch. I used to talk to it daily. I'm certain people with degrees and doctorates would say I was in denial about his absence. All I know is it kept him close. Over time our conversations grew less and less, but there are still days when I need to talk to him. Today is one of those days.

"You'd like him, Lou. He's a good kid. He's taking good care of me. Listen to what he wrote for me," I say, picking up the paper to recite.

The photograph smiles, frozen in that one moment. Lifting the frame, I press it to my chest. We sit like that for a few minutes. And for those few moments I feel less alone.

*********************************

The alarm clock glows in the darkness of my bedroom. Three sixteen a.m. announces itself with my heart beating wildly in my chest. I feel my lungs fighting to keep me from breathing. My mouth gasping greedily but only tiny bits making it into me.

"Breathe, damn it." I reach over to grab the emergency inhaler from the top drawer of my bedside table. I close my eyes and concentrate. Mind over matter. I made it through labor, delivering a large, healthy baby, I can do this. Focusing every bit of energy into breathing, I exhale and puff on the inhaler. Once, then a second time. Within a few minutes I can breathe easier.

I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. Thinking about the girl with tangled hair and bare feet, the girl from Jameson's poem. Where is she now? I want to be her, not this old crow, struggling for every breath. Anger wells up inside of me.

"What did I do to deserve this," I croak into the darkness. "Just take me quickly. Why do I have to go through this?"

My grandfather had died an angry man, never accepting his fate. I won't do that. I don't want my final days to be like this. This is my lot in life. I don't have to be happy about it, but I refuse to waste time being angry. Anger robs you. It changes nothing.

***********************************

The nurse from Dr. Chalmer's office tells me to come in after lunch. I call just to let them know about last night.

"I'm better today."

She tells me that Dr. Chalmers insists. "You know how he can be when it comes to his favorite patient," she says, teasing me. "Just get here when you can. Otherwise, he'll be pouting all afternoon."

I start the slow process of getting ready, then have a pack of nabs and a coke before I head out.

***********************************

"I'm afraid there's fluid building up around your heart now." He checks my swollen ankles.

"There's no million dollar drug that will buy me another month or two?"

He isn't his usual playful self. He looks sombre. "Not this time."

"So, I guess now we wait."

"I'm sorry, Iris, but that's exactly what we do. We wait."

I look away, busying myself with the edge of the paper gown. "Well, I'll go ahead and get dressed. I've got things to do."

Dr. Chalmers leaves me to dress.

There is a calmness that settles over me once I leave. I sit in my car, cleaning out my purse, not ready to go home yet. I need to make one stop before I go home to wait.

Four miles outside of Patterson Proper lies Curry's Grove Cemetery. I follow the road around to the back of the property, and pocket my rescue inhaler before exiting the sanctuary of my car.

Daniel's gravestone glimmers in the sunlight. My sweet little boy resting next to his father.

"Good news," I say. "I'll be seeing you both very soon."

I listen to the songbirds in the branches above me. They carry on, still singing, still flitting from one branch to another. Keeping watch over the cemetery, oblivious to the heartache these stones represent.

*********************************

Maybe it was the sound of my voice when Gertrude called, but she rushes over.

"What happened?" She sounds panicky, her voice shrill.

"I had an episode last night. I couldn't breathe well for a while. I was fine in the morning, but my doctor had me come in. Gert, there's fluid building around my heart."

She makes a face. "Can they drain it?"

"No. And it wouldn't matter anyway. It would just keep coming back."

Gert moans, eyes full of tears that threaten to pour forth. "You asked them? Did you?"

"I asked them several different things. This is what it is. I just wanted you to know."

She turns away, twisting her mouth, trying to keep from crying.

I reach over and squeeze her hand. "It'll be okay."

She won't look at me. "Are you in any pain?"

"Thankfully, no."

"What can I do?"

"Pray that it's quick."

Her shoulders shake and she heaves a raw cry.

"Please, don't. It's too soon for tears."

She sits with me in the quiet.

"Let's have a toast," I say.

Gertrude goes to the liquor cabinet and pulls two bottles out. I have no idea how old they are, but I doubt something eighty proof has an expiration date.

I should be so lucky.