Maybe you’ve seen her headlamp bob down Avenue 14 in Madera County during the predawn hours. The widow’s long, wavy raven-black hair cascades around her shoulders like a shroud and rebounds with each step as she runs to the cemetery that holds the love of her life. The headlamp pulled over her ball cap illuminates every step of the four-mile journey, but at this point she could make the familiar trek in her sleep. Maybe she is. Every day without him feels like sleepwalking. Or a nightmare.
February 4, 2021 was one of those nightmarish days. That morning a video call came through on Andrea Quintero’s phone at 5:36 a.m.
[[You facetimed me only it wasn’t you..it was the nurse or doctor..idk..all I know is I answered and I was told you were going to be sedated..they pointed the camera at you and you shouted from under the oxygen mask “Honey it didn’t work..I love you!” God I hope you heard me yell I love you back. The call ended right after that.]]