6 | Psychopomp Magazine
Lindsay Fowler
The Cure for Loneliness
The inventor purchased a large, high-definition, flat-screen T.V. after his mother passed away. He bought the television to cover the silence, the sound of his mother’s absence. His mother had lived with him for several years, during which he dealt with her decline, her forgetfulness, her increasing confusion and fear, the inevitable infections. Only once she was gone did he realize he’d grown used to the fullness of having her around.
After he bought the T.V., the inventor spent his nights dozing on the couch, bathed in the television’s flickering glow. The television was not much comfort, but late night programming and infomercials for cumbersome kitchen utensils were better than waking up to a silent, empty house.
During one such restless night, the inventor dreamed of his mother’s voice.
“Hffffooooooooo,” she said to him. “Shhhhhhhhmmmmm.” Her voice sounded like the gasp and rattle of her oxygen tank during her last bout of pneumonia, the final one. In his dream, he could see her voice. It came to him through a wall of static before him. As she spoke, her hand materialized from the static and reached out to touch her son’s cheek.
The inventor woke before she could reach him. The television was still on, set to a white noise station, though he was sure he’d fallen asleep watching reruns of old soaps.
Suddenly, the inventor noticed how tired he felt. His eyes felt both dry and sticky. He hadn’t had a restful sleep in ages, and he wondered how long he’d ignored the persistent tinnitus in his right ear. He couldn’t remember if he’d even entered his workshop since his mother died.