They argued for weeks about who would be the suicide and who would be the murderer. Neither could bear the thought of leaving the other alone, not after fifty years of marriage.
Remember when my uncle suffered a stroke?
Yes. He was rescued by his wife only to suffer for another eighteen months. He never forgave her. He glared at her whenever she came into the room and turned his face away.
Would you have the guts to just let me go?
You don’t trust me to be that tough? she asked as her fingers traced 911 on her knee.
We could go to a facility and let them starve us.
One of us might not be sick enough to qualify.
We better start stockpiling our pills, then.
Is it too late to take shooting lessons?
They couldn’t agree on a method. They stopped talking about it entirely, so as not to spoil their golden anniversary. They wanted a nice celebration at an exclusive restaurant near the White House, and a peaceful walk by the river after dinner.
But the sky had darkened and the storm whirled in on their footpath.
What’s that conventional wisdom about taking shelter under trees?
I can’t remember.
Me neither.
Alzheimer's? they worried as they stood under nearby trees, their arms wrapped around each other.
When the lightning bolt struck, it killed them both instantly; six separate surges of electricity hit the same spot within a half second. The air bloomed with the fragrance of cedar from a thousand hope chests. It was a better end than either had ever dreamed.
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry collections from Finishing Line, Pudding House, and Moira Books, as well as her Bombay Trilogy. Most recently her writing has appeared in One Art, The Drabble, The Ekphrastic Review, The Café Irreal, The Ilanot Review, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.
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