Donny awakes because he needs to use the bathroom. He opens his eyes and focuses on the clock that hangs over the mantle. 11:30. Only thirty minutes before he turns 55 all alone in the world after his wife, dog, and father are taken from him in less than two weeks. Why? Why, Jenny? Her friends and their husbands all made a full recovery. None of them had reached out to him when Jenny died.

He places a hand on either side of his chair, ready to push himself up, but instead of looking left where he would see Jenny’s empty chair and Jax’s unoccupied bed, he looks right and sees the end table situated within easy reach of his chair.

It is empty save for his 9MM Glock. Remaining very still he stares intently at the gun for a very, very long time.

Donny thinks about taking the gun and holding it against his temple. He can imagine the cold steel pressing into his skull, the roundness of the barrel pushing roughly against his skin. Then he thinks about moving the gun from his temple into his mouth. He vividly imagines the taste of the well-oiled metal clicking against his teeth as he pushes the gun against the roof of his mouth. Just thinking about placing the gun in his mouth makes it dry and he smacks his lips.

With a slight shake in his hand, Donny reaches out and grasps the gun. He gently pulls back the slide to check that a bullet is in the chamber. It is loaded and ready. He holds the gun in his right hand, his forefinger extending straight along the barrel the way he was taught. Ironic, he thinks, that he utilizes safe practices with what he is considering.

His actions start as he imagined. He places the gun against his temple and pushes. It felt rough. He then tentatively opens his mouth and starts to move the gun away from his temple. His hand trembles as he moves it toward his lips. He needs to stretch his mouth wider and wider as he tries to angle the barrel into his mouth. He realizes that it is much more difficult to get the gun situated than what he expected, but he eventually succeeds in extending the barrel onto the roof of his mouth and pushing.

Donny’s index finger comes away from the barrel, but doesn’t quite start to curl around the trigger. He is thinking of his wife and her comment before going out with friends and contracting COVID-19, ultimately dying less than two weeks later.

“I’ll be fine you old worrywart.”

A tear runs down his cheek and his hand begins to tremble even more when he hears the clock begin to chime midnight. Happy birthday, Donny. His mind races from one disparate memory to another – the first date with Jennifer, their trip to Africa, the time the basement flooded on Christmas Day and they spent the majority of the day ankle deep in filthy water, her smile and soft giggle when aroused, her first time skydiving, and then the last time he saw what was left of her remains as her ashes floated down the small stream along with the ashes of Jax and his father.

The clock continues to chime. Donny pushes harder and harder as his hand begins to violently shake, tears running freely from both eyes. He thinks of his mom and dad, and how his dad tried to put on a strong front when at Donny’s wedding after losing his wife weeks earlier. He could only imagine the grief he was keeping bottled inside while outwardly celebrating his son’s nuptials.

Marshaling his will Donny takes a deep breath and readies himself when the final peal of the grandfather clock rings. The slight echo of the final ring is followed by a deafening silence. In that moment time seems to stop for Donny. In that moment of clarity Donny makes his decision. He rips the gun from his mouth and flings it away from him. It clatters across the hardwood floor bouncing off the far wall of the living room.

Donny leans forward in his chair and rests his head in his hands and sobs. He hasn’t fully acknowledged his pain and now it all comes in gut-wrenching howls. He rocks back and forth as he screams until his throat is raw.

When Donny wakes on the morning of his 55th birthday the sun is shining and coming through the open curtains in his bedroom. His body is exhausted after the previous night’s ordeal. His efforts to process the hand life dealt him, and his reluctant acknowledgment that life should go on, was the first step in what would be a long process to catharsis.

For the first time in weeks Donny goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He washes and shaves and then finds a good pair of slacks and shirt. After dressing Donny walks through the house toward the garage trying to ignore the disarray he sees in every room. He gets into his car and heads toward a small diner he and Jenny used to regularly frequent.

“Good morning, Donny,” chirped Melissa, the long-time waitress at the diner. “It’s been quite a while.”

Donny tried to offer a small smile in return, but before he could speak, Melissa continued, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Jennifer! Oh, oh, how are you? I’ve...”

Donny interrupted Melissa, “I’m doing what I can.”

After a long pause he surprises himself by adding, “Today is my birthday.”

Melissa stops babbling and then pauses, puts on a huge smile, and loudly exclaims, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” She steps to his side as not to yell in his ear, but then bellows, “Hey Johnny, guess who’s here? It’s Donny and it’s his birthday!” Johnny is the owner and cook of the diner.

She steps back to Donny and gives him a big hug. “Sit, sit, let me get you a coffee.”

Donny sees a table in the rear corner of the diner and sits in the front-facing chair. His mind starts to wander. Why had he come here? Getting dressed and coming to a diner wasn’t going to put his life back together. He starts to go down a dark hole when Melissa comes bouncing over to his table.

“Here you go, sweetie!”

She places a coffee in front of Donny, along with a small container of cream and a basket of sweeteners.

“What can I get for you this morning?”

Donny, wanting to retreat into a sorrow-filled world, could not ignore Melissa’s bubbly personality. It kept him in the moment and out of spiraling into despair.