Zoyinka Blake Ricketts, Contributor

Marjorie reached out and caressed, lightly, the unsmiling lips. She edged her fingers close to broad nostrils and prayed they would flare and felt as if her heart was being squeezed by an unseeing hand, though it did not move. She grazed the right cheek and traced an invisible line up to his brow and soothed the brow with her thumb.

They always joked that his forehead looked like half a globe, and sometimes when the moment was light between them and the children and they were playing in the front yard, she would bend over from behind and kiss the shining half globe. She bent now, kissed the punctured globe and wept.

Sylvia said he looked like he was sleeping. He did not. How can one look like one is sleeping with a stuffed hole in the forehead? She wanted to challenge the observation, but the challenge rose and died in her throat. She was tired, she realised, so tired now her eyes burned. She had not been able to sleep for days. She could not find a comfortable crease to curl into, or a pillow warm enough to take the edge off missing the man she had slept beside for 42 years.

She had given up on sleep, went through the motions, brushed her teeth, let the flannel night-gown slither over her head and drape her body, drank water, took out her dentures, knelt by the side of her bed and said her prayers. She got under the covers and reached out. Always, his absence stunned her.

It seemed unlikely that he should be dead. She had never thought of him dying, or even being capable of dying. The possibility of him dying had not even crossed her mind as she sat in the hospital lounge waiting. She had thought of how the incident would affect their lives, racked her brain for names of women in the community who could help take care of him until he got better.

The thought of death did not even cross her mind when the greying surgeon came out and shook his head glumly at Pratt. It was only while getting ready for bed the second night, reaching out and missing his bulk, that the reality of his death sunk in and hollowed her out.

There was a palm massaging her back and another arm around her waist, tugging lightly. She did not want to leave him just yet. She stiffened her frame and gripped the coffin.

"Mummy." It was her eldest, Jacynth, pulling at her. "You have to sit down, the pastor wants to start."

"But I'm not ready," she cried, "I'm not ready."