Incarnate: A Mother's Despair

Tears streamed down Kimberley Wayford's face as she neatly folded the poem from her late husband, Ben. The repetitive beeping of the oven timer finally pulled her from her daze.

She served the gammon and vegetables, placing two plates at the table. A third, empty plate sat at the head, a constant, painful reminder of Ben.

“Brian!” she called, knowing he was likely lost in his coloring.

No answer.

Climbing the stairs, a familiar anxiety twisted in her gut. This was normal, she told herself. He was just imagining.

She opened his door. He was there, face down, surrounded by pens. Relief washed over her until she saw the movement in his arm. Kneeling, she gently touched his shoulder.

“Brian.” Her voice was soft. He didn't stir.

“Brian, baby.” Still no response. She shook him gently. His eyes opened slowly.

“Hey honey,” he said. The voice wasn't his. It was older. It was Ben's.