The television series “Monk” ended two nights ago. I’d been a devotee for most of its run, thanks to my Aunt Alice and Uncle Dick’s recommendation a while back. But in recent years I’d slacked off, preferring instead the clinical eye of Kira Sedgwick on “The Closer.”
Yet, when I learned that “Monk” was ending, I felt compelled to be there. So I taped the final episodes because the program runs late where I live and I wanted to be in my best form to view it.
I’m thinking tonight will be the night. Earl and I are going to put up our artificial Christmas tree (which will solve the mystery of where it will be situated) and then decide how far we’ll go with lights. That and the egg nog. Truthfully, they’ll probably both wait for tomorrow.
I’ve decided we’ll have dinner early enough so that I can immerse myself in Monk’s final case, which for sure will be about the murder of his wife, Trudy, twelve years ago. Earl and I will finish our baked potato and Cajun salmon and salad. While he fusses with dishes I’ll retire to my office to learn the denouement of the entire “Monk” series.
I’m eager to see how it ends. But, the truth is . . . I’m also sad. Even though I didn’t watch it as faithfully as my aunt and uncle did I think I will miss knowing I had the option.
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