I closed my eyes and pictured what my Saturday mornings were like back in my studio apartment. I woke up beside my beautiful wife, Laia, who was as much of a sight as the photographs that she took albeit she never believed me. I loved to believe that our relationship was more than a simple coincidence. She was a climbing photographer and I a progressive artist. Our work was always intertwined. Her photographs brought life to my paintings and my paintings would breed inspiration for more photographs. My favorite Saturday morning was when we had finished our breakfast then from under the table she pulled out a leather-bound photo album. When I opened it there were so many pictures of the two of us, my favorite was the one that she took on Valentine’s last year. She baked small cakes that spelled out ‘Best Husband’ and caught my reaction. The slideshow of the past was interrupted by a terrible fit of coughing which eventually subsided after I spat up phlegm into a cup. Then the darker memories flooded my mind like blood pouring from an open wound which consisted of my last few days with her. Not long after isolation I came down with a nasty cold, however, by each passing day it alternated between better and worse although the paranoia that I had contracted the disease was killing me more than the flu. After the fourth day, I told my wife that I needed some fresh air she protested, but thought maybe it could help. I traveled to the hospital and was tested, poked here and prodded there then for once in my life I prayed that this situation would not be positive. Before being admitted to the hospital I tied a ribbon on my pinky as I vowed to Laia that no matter the various tubes and trials I would live, for her. I knew that I had loved a woman with every morsel in my body. It was pure and good which was more than most could say. The album that she gave me that one Saturday morning became my teleportation device and it always transported me back to beautiful memories. Some of the photos from the album sparked epiphanies in my mind so I continued to make art regardless of my condition. It kept me grounded. A tear slipped down my dried cheek just then my nurse, Julie came and took me for a routine examination. Every step I took felt like an uppercut to the lungs but I walked on and paused to look at the ribbon still tied to my pinky as I thought ‘always for her.’
