© Bruce Goodman 28 October 2017
Vernon was a worrier. Every night he lay in bed, wide awake, and worried.
He worried as to what he would do if his wife died. Would he cope on his own? Would he sell the house and move to something smaller? Would he…?
He worried that his pet canary might escape its cage and fly into the world outside. What would it eat? Would it sing in the trees? It would get cold and probably die in a couple of days. Poor thing. Oh the poor thing.
What if he died before his wife? Would she be alright? What if the car broke down after he’d died? He should really make arrangements to join some Automobile Association so his widowed wife could simple phone up and say “Help!”
What if his dog barked too loud and the neighbours phoned the city’s Animal Control people and they came and took the dog away. It would be so lonely. It would whimper. It would be awful; just awful. People can be so cruel.
What if there was a knock on the door in the middle of the night and it was the police saying that one of the kids had been killed in a car crash? These things happen, and regularly.
What if North Korea dropped a bomb? What if he lost his job? What if? What if?
And tonight was the worst of all. The bed was hard. His every joint ached. Not a wink of sleep all night. He was glad when morning came. He had tossed and turned and worried in case he was getting some sort of alzheimer's. He couldn’t remember what he was worried about.