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Beverly Koski
The house was not a home. It stood waiting. Every room exactly there. But not lived in – Except the kitchen. Where a measure of warmth was felt by the cookbooks on the shelf. And the fridge filled, overflowed. The man was not present. He came and went quietly, remotely. No laughter did they share in this perfect place where brown painted the walls and floors; unbroken by yellow or red. Outside the windows uncurtained, sparkled the carefully tended flowers in wild profusion. Along with the excited birds scrambling busily for seed, fighting to avoid the squirrel greedily moving on the narrow ledge like a great gray rat. This was her nourishment too. Where her soul was fed to balance the alone. |
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