Grief

615 Words - 5 stages of grief - written for the picture is worth a 1000 words contest

"Chip? Hey, are you okay?"

Chip could hear Duane perfectly fine but he couldn't find the energy to respond. He sat on the edge of the paper-wrapped table in the unused examining room with his head hung down, staring listlessly at the floor tile below him. There was a dried wad of gum on one of the tiles. It had been pounded flat and black by many feet over the years. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the damn thing to come off the tile. Last week he spent half an hour down there trying to scrape it off with a putty knife. Right now he just wanted to focus his whole attention on that wad of gum, everything else hurt too much to think about.

Tonight, his whole world had been turned upside down. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He just couldn't believe it was all over just like that. Thank god Nancy had been out of town. It was going to be bad enough telling her when she got back but at least his wife had been spared the shock of seeing it firsthand.

Duane walked over and clasped his friend on one slumped shoulder. "Listen... everything's going to be fine. It's not the end of the world, you know?"

Chip looked up, his eyes were shining with tears. "I can't believe it. That wasn't the way it was supposed to end. How could this happen?"

"I just don't know, man."

"Goddamn it!" Chip slammed his fist into his own thigh so hard that he flinched involuntarily. "The ball went RIGHT THROUGH HIS LEGS! It was an easy out!"

"Yeah, I've never seen anything like that."

Chip rubbed his sore leg. His eyes lit up with a sudden realization. "Hey, but it's not over yet, right? This just means the series is tied 3 - 3. It was just one bad game. They're not out of it. I bet they can bounce right back tomorrow and close the deal. "

"Oh... sure. No question." Duane tried to display a reassuring smile but he couldn't quite keep the edges of his mouth from trembling.

"Nah, look at you. You don't believe it either. It's The Curse. We're all cursed. Friggin' Mookie Wilson. Christ, I just want to lay down and die."

"Chip, dude, we've got to clean all this crap up and get back to work." Duane glanced over at the homemade banner that was strung across the far wall of the examining room, the black and white television askew on the elderly trolley cart, the confetti spread all over the floor and the four bottles of champagne that sat in melting ice. "We've got the whole east wing to check on yet and Mrs. Krantz will be waking up with her night terrors any minute now."

"Yeah, you're right." Chip reluctantly slid off of the examining table. "I don't know why it should bother me. A bunch of millionaire ballplayers lose a game, so what? I bet they're not losing sleep wondering why we're is working graveyard shift in a nursing home. It's not like one stupid game is a big deal in the grand scheme of things. “ With a heavy sigh he pulled down the BOSTON RED SOX - 1986 WORLD CHAMPS banner and stuffed it into the trash.

Duane grabbed a broom and started to sweep. "You're absolutely right, Chip. What the hell does it matter? Mark my words, no one's gonna remember Bill Buckner's error a week from now. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"There's always next year."

"Yeah." Chip gave a weak smile and popped the cork on a bottle of lukewarm champagne. "Always next year."