Drip…

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A slow attrition, like water wearing away stone. How long has it been going on? When did it begin? I don’t know. All I can say is that it’s been there in the back of my mind for days, weeks maybe, with not a moment’s peace or silence.

It’s not real, of course, the sound. Only in my head. A nagging awareness of a chore to be remembered, a task left half done, the way she used to nag. Don’t forget to take out the rubbish. The lawn needs mowing. The gutters want a good cleaning. On and on, task after task, and never done.

I sigh, pull on my boots and overcoat, fetch the pail from the pantry. I thought I’d be done with it now, the never-ending list of jobs. I’d hoped the chain of demands on me was severed, finally, with one last, great effort like the desperate swing of an axe.

But of course, nothing is ever over and done with.

At least I’m spared her voice, with its whine of disappointed static. In its place that spectral drip, drip, dripping. It’s an improvement, of sorts.

I walk out into the overgrown garden, the grass long and riddled with dandelions. I take a perverse pleasure, seeing how far I’ve let things slide. Thinking how much it’d bother her, if she could see what I’ve let the place become.

She was always on at me to make more of an effort. Well, she got her wish, in the end.

I open the door to the shed.  The smell of decay is solid, tangible. Flies buzz in the thin light slanting through the covered windows.

I bend carefully, slide the empty bucket in place of the heavy, full one, its viscous contents sloshing in the gloom.

From a hook in the ceiling, suspended in its plastic cocoon, the body sways slightly.

In my head I can almost hear her voice, derisive, mocking.

Couldn’t even seal the bag up properly.