Another writers’ group meeting

So our little group met once more. We’ve added a member so now there are four.

We set ourselves a task of writing around a list. I wrote two pieces. The first piece below ended up incomplete. I abandoned it because the premise was making me sad.

Now that we are no more

The garden: I’m not expected to pack today. I walk to the screen door and look out. There is lavender in the garden. It is on both sides of the drive. The rose bush is flowering. They are a deep red. All are now overblown but for one perfect specimen. I go to pick it with just my fingers but the thorns get me before I can break the stem. My thumb stings and bleeds.

Table and chairs: We never did get that setting out the front to read our papers in the Spring sun. Now there won’t be any Summer sun. Not for us anyway.

A pillow: I sink my face into it and sniff deep. It’s sweat I smell there but I can’t say it smells singularly like your sweat. How soon will I forget what your sweat smells like?

Bookcases: I don’t remember which came with you and which with me. We are both big readers. You bordering on voracious. And so we moved in together with our similar timber bookcases. There was a fiction section. There were many travel guides over several shelves. Travel writing was separate by your choice. You had many volumes and I only one or two. Non-fiction was separate again with my toying-with-spirituality selections alongside your passion-for-racing tomes.

The red couch: I walk on the tiles in stockinged feet. Should I keep the red couch? It’s not as if it’s the couch from where I boldly took off my shirt and invited you into my bedroom.

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