By Del Griffith
I write a love letter to Ina every morning, but I never send them.
Another pastel-blue day descends on me. Like all other days since Ina’s death, it promises to be a washed and sanitized version of the real thing.
Distant laughter anesthetizes me. Damask curtains flutter on a sea of warm air. Tessellations appear on the wall and end abruptly at Ina’s photograph. Her two-dimensional ghost smiles at me, asking me not to cry again, not to let my stomach twist into knots of despair.
I put love letter number 734 away and smash the photograph on the floor. Again.
Expressed sadness in so few words. We’ll done!
Tenderly observed & as poignant as it gets.