He would go looking for her in the strangest of places; bars, Baptist churches, grocery stores, woods behind his house, a truck stop out west of town. Never could find her.
She left him one afternoon in the summer. The air conditioner hummed, dog barked. His old lady lay in bed with both eyes closed. Whispering to him as he held her hand. Come with me, she said. Come with me, she held tighter.
Can’t do it, he told her. Just can’t, he tilted her head to take a sip of wine.
What good is this life here anyway?, she asked. We’ll be apart from each other. We won’t see one another till the great rapture. Don’t you wanna walk up to the gates with me?, he nodded his head.
I’ll meet you there, he whispered, and then closed her eyes again. This time they stayed closed.
He went out looking for her at night time. Figured that’s when you see ghosts. Never found her. Never did. Came to the conclusion he’d have to wait for the great rapture. Just like she said. That’s when they’d meet again.
So, he’d sit there at the table each night with a glass of wine and wait. Wait for her and Jesus. The radio was tuned to a gospel station. Clouds would form in the sky. The cicadas sang that year. And, he knew they’d be there soon.