She’s crumpled in the chair, eyes distant, despite a man shuffling by, the clink-clatter of dishes, the pungent ammonia.
On her lap, she clasps a postcard, eaten by time. “Martin…” she murmurs, looking down at what remains of the World Trade Centre.
Turning the weathered card, her fingers smooth fine wrinkles to reveal the gentle cursive: Grace, we’re as high as the stars!
Faint woody notes of his cologne drift to her nose. Trembling, she rips a strip—Love, Martie—a communion wafer between her lips. She flutters her eyes. Smiles softly.
“Apologies, the lights are out again,” the intercom crackles.
Leave a Reply