Room

It was at that point that I noticed everything. The trash falling over the lip of the can. Wrinkles in the sheets no longer moving. The car driving by outside. The kicking-in of the heating system. It was stuffy in the room. It was always stuffy in the room. It was that way the first time we walked in. It was at an open house tour. You commented on how much work the place needed. All I could see was the original crown molding. Character. So much Character. You smiled and six months later we moved in.

 There were scuff marks on the hardwood. The flooring we had put in together and stained. The marks were from when we had to change out the bed. And we had to take out the window, with its original molding, to get it into the room. Oh, and also the ventilator. You assured me in very soft, sad tones that it would add more character. The morning light was still beautiful in there. Especially with the yellow we had chosen to paint the walls. I noticed how the tone would change from butter to gold as the day went by. 

We had argued over the ceiling fan. I wanted it gone but you insisted it stay. The room was stuffy. I'm glad you won out. The breeze was sorely needed on those warm summer months. The air would have been too still with just thoughts. Especially with how obvious things were. There was no television. Even with everything, we always said no tv in the bedroom. I stuck to my guns about that one. Although we did play cards and listen to the radio. Well, we did at first.

But today, I listened to the sounds of everything. Or nothing as everything was turned off. The equipment. The fan. The radio. There was still that beautiful yellow. And you. Smiling like you did the first time we were in this room together. I wanted to smile. Looked at you instead. The others were outside of the open door. Your parents. My parents. The nurse. But it was just us in the room. It was at that point that I noticed everything. My body going numb. My breath stopping. My eyes closing. And the rattle as I left you there.