Eurydice

My wife asks for the scissors to cut the hospital band off her wrist.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

I glance back over my shoulder, just once, before leaving her alone. When I return, she’s not on the couch. Bile rises in my throat, the same as when I found her, the bathwater gone cold around her.

This time, she's kneeling in the garden, soil gathering under her toes, her hand caressing an aster she planted. I take a step forward and watch her chest rise, then fall. Then I wait. Wait for it to rise once more.