ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 120: Black and White

Bella knocks on my door, ready to put in her three hours of Saturday-afternoon work at a nearby shop selling what she likes to wear — artisan jewelry, woven scarves, tunic tops. When it’s hot and humid, as it is today, I give her a ride.

“That way, I don’t get sweaty,” she says. “I don’t like to arrive at work in a sweat. And I don’t get a migraine. Heat can sometimes bring one on.”

Before we leave, I open wide my door and lead her to the kitchen. “The floor,” I say. I run the rubbery soles of my sandals over the black-and-white vinyl. “It’s squeaky clean.”

Bella puts her hands together and smiles broadly. “Doesn’t it make you feel good?”

“It makes me feel sad.”

“Why? Because you wiped up spills Ernie dropped?”

“No. Because I always cleaned for Ernie, and he’s not here to appreciate it.”

“Clean for yourself now. Don’t let the clean floor make you sad. The floor’s just a floor. It’s clean now, and Ernie would be proud of you. Don’t surround yourself with sadness.”

I know she’s trying to help me, and yes, I like that the floor is shiny and feels slick, not gummy. Can I feel happy that the floor is clean, and also sad that Ernie is not here to see it?

Life is never all black or all white, is it?