The Twig Painter

     Penny Sears wiped the streaming tears from her face as the cantor chanted a prayer for her late husband. She couldn’t hear his words; she was still in shock. Her beloved Adam died two days earlier at the age of fifty. She tried remembering his words, ”When I die – throw a party – no pity. I did everything I wanted to do.” His wide smile conveyed, “I feel terrific.”

     As the funeral continued, her mind began to race as a million thoughts rambled through her head. The day before your heart attack, you jogged three miles. How could you die and leave me with two teenagers? Amanda and Holly need you and we were in the prime of our lives. It doesn’t make any sense. You seemed so healthy and so alive.

     Why did I fight with you fifteen years ago to stay in the CIA? With the news of my pregnancy, you wanted me to abandon my career. You begged me to stay home with our babies. Maybe I was too stubborn. The extra three years working for the agency was our only cause of dissension. Our family time together was so limited and finding good nannies was a nightmare. I should have listened to you, and quit even earlier. You were right Adam. If only I could go back in time. How will I take care of the two kids without you? You were our Mr. Mom. You gave us strength and happiness. Why did you have to die so young?

      Penny heard her relatives and friends in unison saying, “Amen” and it was over. The important questions would still plague her subconscious. Clutching the girls in her arms, Penny cried uncontrollably as she watched the two grave diggers lower the casket into the ground.