A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01 - Sex Stories

A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01

... playing on the radio, too loud since his hearing had started to go. There would be the sound of tools working, maybe the whine and growl of a power saw in the garage or the heavier deep buzz of the air compressor at work followed by the distinctive wail of air tools at work.

There was none of that.

I walked into the front room and stopped cold.

Mom was sprawled in the recliner, the only light in the room was what leaked around the curtains. On the little table that sat between her recliner and Dad's was a quart bottle withGrey Goose etched into the glass and an oversized ashtray that was overflowing.

In one of those amazingly inappropriatenon sequiturs that happen sometimes, my first thought was, "Mom doesn't smoke."

My second thought was, "Oh, Jesus, she's dead."

As I was thinking that she let out a loud, bubbly fart.

God, what a mess.

Mom's one of those big women who seem to try to make up for her size by looking her best all the time. Her hair, worn short to make kind of a big halo around her head, think a medium-length Afro but with fine hair that strawberry blonde color favored by some "mature" women, was always in place and her face was always made up.

What was sprawled on the recliner was so far from that as to be almost unrecognizable.

It looked like her hair hadn't been touched with a comb or a brush or a hairpick, whatever she used to achieve that look she favored, since the funeral a week ago. Her face was still streaked with the ...

... black raccoon lines of tear-damaged mascara. She was drooling, making a wet spot on the thin housedress that was obviously all she had on.

And she stank.

I guessed she hadn't showered in the week since the funeral. Hell, I wondered if she had done anything but sit in that chair and smoke and drink.

I was crying as I knelt by her chair and took her hand.

"Oh, Mom," I said, very softly, "I'm so sorry." I kissed her hand. "I should have been here for you."

I felt her fingers twitch and looked up.

She wiped feebly at her mouth and nose that was running now, just managing to smear the mess.

"Oh, Honey," she said, "I'm all right. You should be back at school."

And some sort of a dam broke in my mind.

"Mom," I said, holding that hand but meeting her eyes now, "you are the precise, mathematical opposite of 'all right.' And I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you."

I kissed her hand again.

"And I'm not leaving," I added.

"Honey," she said, but I shushed her with a finger to her lips.

"Now, first things first," I said, pulling on her hand.

At first, she was dead weight but when she realized I wasn't going to quit she rocked forward. At her size, she had to rock back and then forward again to get the momentum up, and then she stood.

She was what she had always been. Short and fat. Dad had explained to me that, "Women are supposed to be soft and round." I guess he meant it because Mom was certainly both of those things.

When she stood and looked up ...