No Time

vol-raven-ink By guest author, Vol Lindsey 10/14/19 When you are seventy years old and a widow, there is a thing that sneaks up on your young heart. Remember back when we first met, and you told me about the novel you wrote, and your awful dead end job? And a year later, at Fall Creek Falls when I proposed to your deep eyes? Or how about the time we rode the motor for a five-day tour down the Blue Ridge Parkway into Asheville, and all that hail the storm used to kick our asses? We learned to cook food OUR way, and what clothes made US look good. I had so hard a time buying you a gift because everything short of the moon was just settling. Those deep memories brought us all the way to that dark night when even though our muscles and bones shared atoms, our souls a single thing, you had to leave. Now, out on the empty horizon, there will not be enough time to rebuild with a new one I might suddenly fall for. Never is as long as forever when you know for certain the days are too short for a man already fully grown to look inward and back to when things were new and carried all the stuff required to pour a another foundation.

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