She sat waiting until finally he turned to her to speak.

Two fingers rose to cross her lips, her shoulders lowered, nodding her head slightly from side to side with both her eyes closed. We held our breath back a bit and waited for movement.

She spoke of his one crooked tooth, the way the soft loam was caught under his nails after a morning in the garden, the way he would prepare his eggs, softly stirring them in the pan, the tines of the fork held down, pulling them around in the sweet butter.

As she spoke her arms raised, palms turned in, her eyes up in thought, holding the air as if about to go en pointe.

It was then that I realized, it wasn’t the grief of loss that she suffered but the waking up every morning and putting her arms around empty…

mrgane le fay #2 Morgane Le Fay #2
© Howard Schatz