The Decision, part one

Leta looked out of the window on the gray spring morning. Although her apartment was warm and cozy, her bones ached. This always happened when a day of damp followed a clear one. She also ached because she had spent the past two sunny days doing her spring cleaning. This annual ritual included everything from washing the drapes to scrubbing the walls to hand washing all of the bric-a-brac on her tables and shelves. She wanted her entire home to be fresh and clean, which it was.

Still, the strenuous exercise and the change in the weather afflicted her. She stood stiffly in the kitchen while the coffee perked. She had recently purchased a bag of oranges from a Mexican fellow on the corner and had intended to squeeze herself a glass to go with her toast and coffee, but she had neither the strength nor the ambition. Instead, she just wanted to take a couple of Bayer aspirin and sip her coffee.

Perhaps she had done too much. When she was younger, spring cleaning energized her. She had fond memories of rousing her children, stripping their beds and putting them all to work to refresh their home after the long winter. But now at age 75, it not only took longer, but also wore her out for a couple of days afterwards.

Her daughter Vivian offered to clean, as she had been doing for her ailing father, Leta’s first husband, for several years, but Leta refused. Not only did Vivian have her own spring cleaning, but also what kind of woman couldn’t clean her own home? It was only a small four-room apartment, including the bathroom. If she couldn’t manage that, then she might as well throw in the towel.

The coffee helped. She liked sipping it when it was piping hot and nearly scalding her tongue. The sharp pinch in her throat as the beverage went down warmed her from the lungs out. The aspirin also helped. She considered taking three, which always made her feel better, but the doctor had warned her that her blood was thin and aspirin would not be beneficial.

The drizzle started while she was chewing on her toast. She buttered it first and then applied the raspberry jam that her daughter had made. She liked how the butter softened the rough toast before applying the sweet fruit. Vivian had taken extra care to remove the seeds. Both of them wore dentures. The discomfort of a wayward raspberry seed or two could cause discomfort for a long time. Still, her mood darkened, and the little voice of reason, the one she repressed on a regular basis, rose in her head, and she knew that it was time to make the decision she had been putting off for some time.

A little later, when she knew her son-in-law had gone to work, and Vivian would be home alone, she telephoned.

“Vivian,” she said, “it’s time.”

To be continued.