Not mine. L
You were a English student. You were beautiful. Sometimes, you know I'll imagine you, sitting across from me. You will drink to muck coffee, I can see you there, clear as day. But if I focus to hard, if I try to hold onto that memory, I can't quite remember your face, the color of your eyes is fading away, slipping, until I can't quite remember if they were chestnut or ebony. I can't quite remember the way your hair fell against your shoulders. I can't quite remember your laugh.
"How are you?" I ask.
And I can't imagine what you would say.
But you don't have to talk. I'll pour out my heart to you. Red John. Lisbon. Everything. I'll tell you why I keep our house. I'll tell you that sometimes, when I feel all alone, that I can pretend that you are out shopping, that you will come home, with your arms full of old books, smelling of old paper and quoting Blake. And I will ask:
"Don't you have enough of those already?"
And I would give you words, but your voice is slipping away.
And our little girl will come home from daycare. I can remember her perfectly. I just look in the mirror, rearrange those features, just a little, and her honest blue eyes are staring right back at me.
"Daddy, Daddy! Will you tell me a story?"
So I sit both of you down, one on each knee. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princesses… I'll begin. And you'll laugh in all the right places.
And just one more time, I'll get to be your knight in shining armour.
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