No. 73


He walked a thousand miles. And when he got there she had gone. Nearly 20 years earlier. A terrible, creeping, insidious cancer. And in those final days, although he would never know, she had said his name. Softly. Quietly. Until her last breath. As the door closed in front of him, all he could do was stare. Empty. Hollow. He’d wasted a lifetime to reach this conclusion. And now, her door, once as bright and welcoming as her smile, was cracked and weathered; etched with the memory of her passing and a naked reflection of his own aged and time weathered face and hands. In the cherry tree above his head a blackbird sang its plaintive tune. An echo of her memory.

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