skills
ovenbird She couldn’t marry him. The strictures of her specific religion wouldn’t allow for it because he failed to meet certain criteria. So he lived in her basement suite while he recovered from open heart surgery and they pretended they weren’t living together. Love will always find a loophole. That’s one of its special skills. When he recovered he rented an apartment and blew his money on whisky and cigarettes. Then he died of the heart attack that hadn’t managed to finish him off the first time. When she couldn’t reach him by phone she went to his house. When he didn’t answer the door she ripped it off the hinges. She was barely five feet tall and maybe one hundred pounds and that door didn’t stand a chance. Love will make itself a sledgehammer. That’s one of its special incarnations. She found him in bed, already cold, an unfinished book on the bedside table, his guitar in its case on the floor. Now she visits his grave once a year, and sits with the ghost of everything that wasn’t allowed to run its course. A part of her will always be his. Love doesn’t believe in death. That’s one of its special delusions. 260331
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