“Go ahead,” Marcie whispered. Ben watched Sheila blush. The two women waited. “And take off the ring, Ben. I’ve been dead a long time.”
Our 40th class reunion was over. Kisses exchanged like we were teenagers once more, promises to meet made. Promises we knew we’d never keep.
They told the little ones stories. “Four seasons,” they say, “we had four seasons.” Their little eyes marvel at the dream of spring.
In the book, tucked so to hold a page, a postcard bought written never sent to anyone, least of all the person the words meant to address.
Gathering around the cake to blow off the twenty-six candles, we try to feel his presence by standing close to his empty seat.
“I am really a genius. I could have written great novels or poetry.” “But you didn’t.” “No,” he flipped the TV channel, “but I could have.”