I hate my wifes illness. I stand in the prairie, watching the bees szzille buzzily from one half-dead, August-baked blossom to another, the sun slipping gently behind the trees. Nary a blade flickers. Absently I pat the dog on her head, both of us watching the stillness. A glance towards the house, a window, a glimpse, a shadow half-seen behind curtains, pulled. Wishing she were here, with me. She, hands clenched in pain come too soon, eyes green as the prairie peeking out, watching, wishing to see free, our dream built for two, seen by naught but me.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 03:24:51 +0000