The Choice Not Taken Read Online Free PDF Page A

third time-that they get to bed or else, I decided I’d do the same.
     
    Drained, but nowhere ready for sleep, I set my small bag on the guest bed, stumbling over my laptop case in the process. I’d forgotten it was there.
     
    Tentatively resting it upon a thrift store desk in the corner, I unpacked my computer and powered on. A gray box warned of no signal and instantly prompted me to an unsecured wireless internet connection. Unlike most of their frugal shortcuts, Joe and Jen splurged on technology.
     
    The cursor flirted–enticing me to log on when it appeared and to shut the damn thing down when it didn’t. I logged on and walked away.
     
    Poking my head out the door and finding the lone bathroom open, I took my turn prepping for bed. Upon returning to the room, I wasted another fifteen minutes changing into pajamas and setting out clothes for tomorrow.
     
    Looking around at stacks of bright plastic bins filled with who knows what and a closet over-stuffed with four seasons of clothing, my anxiety level quickly reached critical mass.
     
    Lying on the bed, I expertly placed one hand on my chest and one upon my abdomen. Slowly breathing through my nose, I struggled until there was no movement in my chest. I inhaled, allowing my stomach to fill with air and with every exhale, it would fall deeply against my spine. Despite continued practice, it took more than a half hour to relax versus my usual ten minutes.
     
    I eventually sat up and came to the rational conclusion Jen would have my head on a platter if I organized any of her stuff. Fighting the urge was surprisingly easy since it wasn’t my own home, but I still needed something .
     
    Re-directing my gaze toward the glowing screen, I debated whether to call off another search and just read one of the dime-store paperbacks crammed on a homemade bookshelf. For while the latter route would certainly insure a decent night’s rest, poking around on the computer could only make things worse than they already were.
     
    Ignoring my inner instinct, I settled at the desk with a silent pledge to spend no more than twenty minutes on the computer. And so for the third time in a little more than a day, I typed his name-only now I added O-B-I-T-U-A-R-Y to the search field.
     
    A few new links appeared along with the regular options, and I automatically clicked the first one, scanning it quickly with relief. No mention of Philip.
     
    If I find nothing new...maybe I can let this go , I hoped.
     
    Confidently selecting another new link, I began to envision an enjoyable hour of peaceful reading. The site itself was embedded in a corporate website, leading me to believe it, too, held nothing of value. But I was thorough to a fault and subsequently chose the link with his name listed as a member of the board of directors.
     
    Words faded. And my hands urgently gripped at warped edges of the particleboard desk to prevent me from tumbling onto the shag carpet with a resounding thud and startling the entire family from a deep slumber.
     
    My swollen heart pressed against prickled skin, and I boldly read the obituary. I needed the print–etched there in black and white-to answer the questions feeding off my every coherent thought like ravenous parasites.
     
    Was it really him? Yes. It was him. The listed names of wife and children matched the ones he’d told me whenever he became brave enough to talk about them.
     
    When did it happen? One year and six months ago. Almost the same amount of time we were together.
     
    How did he die? A lengthy illness. Nothing more.
     
    Was he in pain? It didn’t say.
     
    Had he been happy in those few healthy years? God, I hoped so.
     
    Did he ever think of me...or love me...during those many years we were apart? I would never know.
     
    I pressed the OFF button and when it didn’t respond, I furiously punched it, hard, with my right index finger, effectively splitting the nail down its center.
     
    I lost an old friend, and no one