Does everyone from Brooklyn end up in the same place? Do they drink egg creams together? Is she that raven-haired beauty, once again? Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Would I be more blue in Brooklyn? Is it possible to be bluer? The French say avoir le cafard, which makes me even sadder and more uncomfortable. I can't even pronounce it properly. Maybe if I had a cigarette hanging from one side of my mouth as I said, "J'ai le cafard" it might be more convincing. At least to me. As it stands, I just descend into it.
My week brings more flowers. Roses. Tulips. Irises. Birthday flowers. It hasn't even been a month, there isn't room to celebrate. And, what would I be celebrating? The first year without her? A day that lacks a wish in a voice that has sustained me for years? That isn't something I wish to celebrate. You know, I really understand those old Italian widows in their black dresses. I never could before. So dowdy. So bleak. They never go out of mourning. Grieving just becomes another texture.
She seems to be populating everyone else's dreams. But not mine. She has chosen a difference course. In the swirling minutes at the end, I took her in. Sheltered her. Touched the soft pads of her finger tips for the last time. Pressed finger to finger. Taking what was left to me.
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