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In Memory of the Loving

The telephone is evil. Even though I use it every day as if it is my only connection to the outside world; I know that it is evil. Every message I have never wanted to receive has been delivered to me via telephone. And so it came ringing again, one hot, muggy August night, to deliver yet another message that I never wanted to hear.

He shot her, in the laundry room, at 11pm. As she stood downstairs preparing for her trip, he stood upstairs, choosing his gun. The smell of Downy lingering in the air, her sweet voice humming a familiar tune, she folded her clothes. His hands heavy, sweat dripping down his forehead, he loaded three guns.

I pray that she never saw it coming. I pray that she was so preoccupied with her busy hands, she couldn't hear him creep down the steps. I pray that he shot her as soon as she turned around, before she could see the gun. I pray that the shot to the stomach was so distracting, she couldn't see he was about to shoot her again. I pray that before she even had a chance to contemplate her fate, to feel any pain, she was meeting her Maker.

I do not pray for him. I choose to believe he shocked himself at his act of violence. I choose to believe that he was sorry as soon as he pulled the trigger. . . . both times. I choose to believe that it was hard for him to turn the gun on himself and finish what he started.

Only a few days have passed since the funeral and I have realized I am so angry at her death, I'm not remembering her life. I will not give him that satisfaction. I will silence my thoughts and choose to hear her laughter. I will close my eyes and choose to see her smile. I will forget that she was taken so suddenly, so tragically, and choose to remember the grace with which she lived her life. A master of time, a servant to all, a perfect example of love abundant; I remember her.

Learn more about this author, Desi Throngard.
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