I’ve got my husband’s Vicodin. His Oxycontin. His Belsomnra. He doesn’t need them anymore. And neither do I, unless I want to off myself.
I’m all set to toss the pills down the toilet when I remember he told me no flushing. It pollutes the groundwater, he said. Gets into rivers and lakes and wreaks havoc on human and aquatic life.
Now he’s dead and for days I’ve been wishing I were too. Still, I do as instructed and mix the pills up with used coffee grounds, seal the vials in a leak-proof coffee can, and toss it into the garbage.
The night I haul the trash to the curb, I wish I had those sleeping pills back. I want to knock myself out. I want to go to bed and not-remember how blissfully ignorant we were, eating our baked sole the evening before the doctor told him it was cancer. I want to not-dream of aquatic havoc: flounder that have five eyeballs and sterile frogs that waltz.
It only costs $249. So even though I live in Florida and it only gets cold enough to use it a few nights out of the year, I order a fake fireplace. The carton announces: add some warmth to your home without any of the mess or smoke!
I put the fireplace in the bedroom where my husband’s dresser used to stand and remember how he always used to commandeer the thermostat in our house.
Go on Tinder, my friends tell me. Or match.com.
But it’s a lot easier to just flick a switch and spark a flame.
Besides, it only cost $249. And I control the temperature.
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