Comforting pretense 

I grasped his wrist: it was cold as ice. 

My fingertips searched for a pulse. 

Why is it so cold in here? Who set the thermostat so low? Maybe I should go change the setting on the air conditioner. 

My fingertips searched some more for a pulse as I watched his face in peaceful sleep. 

Is he uncomfortable because it’s so cold in here?

I let go of my search momentarily so that I may arrange the blankets around him and make him more comfortable. 

My fingertips this time make their way to his neck, my brain comprehending but not accepting that I may not find a pulse. 

I shudder again due to the cold: this time it’s not the air conditioner but the coldness that accompanies death. 

I reach out and adjust his blankets again; to make him more comfortable. But this time it was an excuse- because pretending like he is alive for a few more minutes wouldn’t comfort him, but me. 

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