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Tim Peeler |
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Widow Love Invisible in hallways at work, she spoke in classes, automatic pilot on. That first year in a lawn chair she sat by his grave, grading papers, complaining to him about students, the overload, the new department chair; it didn't seem silly. She was a psychologist; she knew what it took sometimes, the pit one descends into, then climbs from, the ruling thumb of the past tense. What she could not part with was the memory of his eyes, the way he listened and smiled, the ropy muscle of his arm against her, the night pulled around them a thousand thousand times, so she tended that lesser world as she had to, a foot on the gas, her lipstick right, her lessons planned, and she moved through the hallways as the sunlight shone through her as if there were nothing there. |