Writing Exercise .... 11/2018

My short story using the words:  strawberry, lopsided, spurn, planet, shoes, worship, hoodwink, miniature

My Sam

I closed her eyes.

Excuse me.

After she died.  I closed her eyes.

Oh.

When she died, her eyes remained open.  I closed them.

I see.  (I listened to his story but had nothing to add.)

I took my hand, placed it over her eyes and gently closed the lids.

He grew silent. Paused.  After a bit, he continued. As his story unfolded, he spoke slowly. Tenderly. Quietly.

 The love of his life, although they had known each other since childhood, they had been “officially” together since she was sixteen, and he was eighteen.  The only girl he kissed.  The only girl he dated.   Initially she was not interested.  He would have to win her over.  And he did. 

He discovered her love for strawberries. He often brought her the fruit.  He pretended to grow them.  He pretended to love them.  He did not. 

He learned of her love for astronomy. He would often watch the night sky with her.  Scanning the universe. Discussing the stars. Occasionally they would see a planet.  He pretended to care.  He pretended to be interested.  He was not. 

He wanted her, and if he had to hoodwink her, so be it. 

He loved her. Absolutely.  Unconditionally.  Perhaps to the point of worship. 

A lopsided affair.  She so full of beauty and grace.  Refinement.  Kindness and courage.  His courage had been of a different nature.  He was rough.  Tough.   He had a bristly temperament.

As he spoke, remembering her, he gazed past me to a time only he could see. 

Occasionally he looked at me to add an explanation.  “One didn’t get to be a full colonel by being nice.”, he rationalized.    

Their relationship had been rocky in the beginning. He had even been spurn(ed) by her a time or two.  But, with time and perseverance, he won her over. 

They had a daughter.  Just one child.  She was all they needed.  She was perfect.  A miniature version of her mother.

Again he looked at me.  He remembered how as a toddler, their daughter had become obsessed with wearing her shoes. He chuckled.  “Even in the house.  Even when napping.”  He smiled with the memory.

He returned to his story.   Their story.

And now she lay dying.   The love of his life. He was there for her last moments.  Her last breath.

He gently took his hand and closed her eyes. 

He had grown, over time, to love her favorite fruit.  He would think of her each time he ate a strawberry.

He had grown to love the night sky.  The stars.  The planets.  He would think of her each time he looked up to the heavens.

 And he would recount his story. 

To anyone who would listen. 

Because he could not let her go.