By Mallory Everhart
Two minutes before she came in, the nurse
with red-rimmed eyes said “it has been
two minutes. I can’t in good conscience tell
her there is still brain activity.” She missed
the window the aide opened to let out
his soul, a superstition most healthcare workers share.
She rushed in the door trailing a weeping
daughter and the nurse with red-rimmed
eyes told her “he can still hear you” anyway because
we know our morals in the moment and this tender
fiction is a lie he could live
with and being responsible
for her guilt was not.
The first words she said
at his bedside were “I’m sorry” because
years of vitriol rarely matter when
you’re looking at a corpse. She loved
this man, this body, once. It went cold
like it does sometimes but his ex was the only
one he had to call after the accident
and, to her credit, she kept visiting.
The second thing she said
was “I love you” and when
she kissed his cooling cheek
I hope he knew she did. Because
sometimes I need that tender
fiction, too. That somehow, when
the soul escapes the mouth, it gets
a bird’s-eye view and knows
nothing but understanding and feels
nothing but grace.