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.