In the course of the day I come across a key with an identifying tag attached to it. The tag is a circle of aged white paper outlined in a narrow metal band and on it is your crabbed uneven print: Cottage. It comes from a day before I knew you, when you lived here, in your new house, and could do something like identify a key before losing track of it. It's been so long since I knew that person though I can remember when you changed the cat litter every day, locked the doors before bed and went down into the crawl space at 2am when the sump pump got stuck. I walk down the little main street of our town. You used to walk here. You used to walk into town and buy me a present on my birthday, going to Tiny's shop and taking her advice. Your last strolls-with-cane were to the library, just a block away, where you could look at art books and then walk home. And though your ghost is hardly here anymore, when introducing myself locally, I sometimes add the subtitle, "I'm Fred Poole's wife," words that can spark recognition after my own name has not.
lovely, sad piece, a complete piece, from the little key tag to the "Fred Poole's wife."
ReplyDeleteSo much is said in the activities no longer done, person now absent, and the key! The uneven print from before the author appeared on the scene. Powerful.
ReplyDeleteSuch a loving tribute to such a good and loving husband, heart hurting and still glad for the good years. So relate to this piece on a very personal level. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI sense the sadness and the longing, the nostalgia for what once was .
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