INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

[Darkness. The faint sound of steady breathing, husband and children asleep. Their bodies are tangled together, all leaning toward the wife like roots to a tree.]

(A click. The reading lamp glows warm, a small island of light in the room).

WIFE:

(softly, as if afraid to wake anyone)

Now, the duty is done.

No more clothes to wash.

No more little hands to wipe.

No more husband to feed.

(She sits, hands on her lap. A small sigh.)

And I’m alone.

With my thoughts.

With myself.

(A pause. She leans back, gaze unfocused.)

And wow… my mind wanders.

If I were given the choice, what’s the proper age to stop living?

(She leans forward, elbows on knees.)

Do I want to be old and grey, incapable, leaning on others just to stand?

Living day to day, waiting for another day?

(A short, bitter laugh.)

I’ve seen that look, the one in old faces that says, I’m still here,

but most of me left years ago.

I don’t think I could bear it.

But leaving,

Leaving is agony.

How do you walk away from good food, good laughter, good friends?

(She looks toward the sleeping shapes.)

From them?

WIFE:

My children, even when they’re taller than me, towering over me,

They’ll still be my babies.

I’d keep them close forever if I could,

But that’s greedy. Isn’t it?

They won’t need me as much.

And my husband,

If he grows old and grey beside me,

I hope he outlives me.

(Her voice softens, almost breaking.)

Because the idea of sleeping alone, living alone, eating alone, 

coming home to a house that has no one, alive alone.

I can’t even imagine it.

But if I go first, he’ll be left with the kids, the chores, the thousand little things he’s never noticed. And honestly, I’d snap out of my grave if he keeps hanging more and more jeans without folding them.

(She smirks to herself. The smile fades.)

There’s no perfect answer, is there?

(Beat.)

Thank God, it’s not up to me.

WIFE:

(tone warming, nostalgic)

I’ve planned anyway for my old age.

A house drenched in sunlight.

More time outside, maybe near the ocean.

Though, that might cost too much.

I’ll sell books.

Run a little second-hand bookstore.

Help anyone who asks.

Tell stories.

And when I run out of stories,

I’ll listen.

My husband will wander with his old camera.

I’ll stroll with him, if my knees allow.

And maybe,

the loneliness he gives me now, when he’s too busy,

just maybe, when we’re old, I’ll get the whole of him back.

And my grandchildren!

I’ll feed them, change them, play with them,

until their mothers are all rested.

A baby I didn’t carry, didn’t birth 

but still get to hold?

That’s the dream.

WIFE:

(Beat. She looks down, twisting her fingers together.)

So, the proper age?

The first time I asked it, I thought of fear.

The second time, I thought of love.

Now, I think of endings.

Maybe I do want to live long,

as long as I keep coming home.

Again and again.

But if the day comes,

Please, don’t let me be alone.

(Her gaze drifts back toward the bed)

I want my last sight to be the people I love most,

all tangled together, where my hand can reach out to everyone with just a slight move.

and me, still in the middle.

(Lamp clicks off. Darkness.)

Familiar.