My breathing sounded like blues harmonica, with a staccato urgency to it. The been done wrong man gently urged me through the snow with oxygen, and I gasped eternal truths during the trip to the nearest ER. He hasn't voluntarily spent time with me in years, and our 24th anniversary went unnoticed by either of us. I still make him laugh. He makes me laugh. We want happiness for one another and know togetherness isn't always the recipe.
The intellectual journalist with the wise and gentle heart I married now listens to books on tape as he drives a big rig cross country to keep the rent paid, having lost our house way too long ago. I'm a clever but useless partner. He doesn't care about anything but getting the bills paid and living up to his obligations.
He was for the war. I was on the steering committee of the Instead of War Coalition.
He left the hospital and drove through industrial ruins to the hub and headed up through Illinois. He got to Effingham when he had chest pain, pulled over and CALLED A FUCKING CAB! They medivaced him back to St. Louis, he'd had a minor heart attack (as if). He was here at least 12 hours before I knew about it because I finally called him and he had to tell me what happened. He didn't want me worrying.
Effingham has earned its name in my book. He's a weird and callous, crusty old booger, but he's my crusty old booger and hero to my children. A cab???; Have I taught him nothing?
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