Clutches my hand. “I love you more than fucking life itself, Nadia. Never forget that. Wherever…wherever I’m going, I’ll love you there too.”

I hold him.

Cling to him.

His arms are around me, clutching.

“I love you,” I whisper, for the millionth time.

For the last time.

How long, then?

An hour? Five minutes?

His arms go weak. Slack.

His breathing slows.

I start to shake, trembling like a leaf, like I’ve been outside in -20 degree weather for an hour.

No, no, no, no, no.

It’s so subtle I barely notice it, for a moment.

I look at the clock: 3:33a.m. He always called three in the morning “zero hour.”

Figures he’d choose that time.

I cry, and I cry and I cry and I cry.

Until I’m dry, and hoarse.

Tess comes. Tries to pull me away, but I refuse. Fight her off, even though I know it’s her.

Stronger hands, stronger arms.

A pinch to my arm, because I won’t leave him.

Darkness, blessed darkness.

Can I just stay in this place? This quiet? This solitude, where there is nothing, and so much of it?

The world is cruel, and I don’t want to go back.

Take me with you, Adrian.

You promised. I almost hear him.

I promised.

Part II

Drowning

72 hours

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

The minister’s voice is what Adrian would have called mellifluous.

Why is it always that Psalm? What does it have to do with death, and mourning, and funerals? I admit I’ve not really read much of the Bible, but I feel there has to be a more appropriate passage to read at funerals, but it’s always that one.

I’m numb, at the moment. I’m like a gourd that has been scooped out until it’s hollow. That’s me, the hollow pumpkin lady.

A murder of crows perches in a giant spreading oak tree behind the minister, seven or eight of them all in a cluster on three branches. They’re silent. Watching us. As if paying their respects.