Cajun WhisperMature

A widower seeks out to say his last goodbye to the woman he loves.


To be honest, I thought this would be easy when it came down to it, considering you went to a better place, as they say, but it's gotten worse. I took up drinking in your absence. It seems to be the only way to momentarily forget what had happened. It's not that I want to forget you, rather just what happened to you. We had a great thing going. Yeah, the marriage was shakey, but whose isn't? Every marriage has their ups and downs. Hell, I can count how many times we've gotten in a fight over something as silly as clothes, but we made up and everything went back to normal, like it always does. I suppose I want to give my last goodbye, or something along those lines. I remember how you love those small things we do. Well, this is my time to do one of those small things.......

Nathaniel leans against a small wooden dresser staring into his regretful reflection as it mocks him so arrogantly. It reminded him of what was through the slight cuts of stressed wrinkles, bending around broken brown eyes, a slender nose and thin lips, parting his smooth skin with flaw. Those are her wrinkles, but not induced by her, rather the memory of her. Those nostalgic eyes look down at a folded peice of paper in the midst of sunlight dust. He gathers it and unfolds to five words, written in fancy cursive lettering:

" Live life through small ideas". Her motto when things seem incoherent and strange. It was like her religion to abide by it every single day she was alive.

Under it was a kodak worthy portrait of a middle-aged woman with faded brown hair falling to her slender shoulders; a full face with high cheek bones, a button nose and full, pouting lips crawls with the faint hints of crow's feet, and laugh lines, but they never parted that forever youth she held beyond those flaws. She sat against a white wooden swing, out among a few trees on a hill, wearing a white summer dress that falls against a slightly out of shape form, relaxing elegantly against it with a comfortable, slightly sensual smile.

" What am I doing? This is nonsense. I came here on the whim of mysticism and folklore. What was  I thinking?" states Nathaniel with self-mock; this was foolish, and he was starting to realize that now.

He lets off an obnoxious sigh, and stuffs the merchandise of his past in a leather jacket pocket walking toward a nearby door in a small motel bedroom. He opens the door through a whimpering groan and is greeted by vibrant rays of a low sun that's only several hours from its set.

The End

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