Everything Turns Away

Chapter 3

3.

You are tired of being alone. You are tired of being sad and lonely and depressed. Although she died only three months ago, it seems you’ve been alone far too long. Three months ago you lay by her side in her hospital bed and touched her hand and watched her breathe her last breath. Your wife.

There was a Labradoodle puppy for sale on the internet. All the rage. Half Lab, half poodle. Only $650.00. Male. Black. Free Delivery, you thought the ad said. He’s all yours. Quiet personality. Only six weeks old. Completely trained. On paper. Newspaper. Kennelled, whatever that meant. His name was Gibson, after Mel. Gibson lived with his mom (Lab) and his dad (poodle) in the country. Out on a farm two hours north of Toronto. He liked to chase the chickens. There was a picture of him on the internet chasing the chickens.

Clicked on it. Why not? Bought yourself a puppy. Sent in your VISA number with the expiry date. It was a secure site so that was fine. Bought a puppy. Delivered to you. You wondered if he would come with the chickens? You wondered if you would step out on your front porch one morning, a fresh-squeezed glass of orange juice in your hand, and see a box with air holes waiting for you there? Would Gibson’s nose poke out, wet and black? Would his tongue fit through the holes to lick your finger?

These were the kinds of things your wife used to take care of. Ordering things. Buying things. Shopping. Decisions that you avoided your whole life. Why make a decision when your wife could make it for you? Besides, your decisions were always wrong.

Like in this case when you realized there was no free delivery and you’d have to rent a car to drive two hours north of Toronto to pick up the dog.

You aren’t sad, really. Just alone. And alone is sad. You guess you are sad. Your psychiatrist says you are sad. You miss her. Even with Gibson snuggled nearby, the aloneness makes you almost afraid to be in your house at night. You climb into sheets that are tightly tucked on the one side, untucked on the other. They are cold. There is no one there beside you. Gibson prefers the floor. You look at your bony arms and legs and the age spots on your hands. You think of your wife and how she will never age past the day she died. She will never grow very old. Just old enough.

You only have a few more years until retirement. Full time to spend alone. Or with Gibson.

You thought about adopting a girl? Or a boy? An orphan, so you won’t feel so alone. You thought you could name him or her after your wife or your grandfather.

But you are too old to go down that road.

And your wife didn’t want kids.

Aren’t you. Too old?

A dog, for now, is enough.