I found this difficult moment in time scribbled at the bottom of an old notepad on the dining room table, which I have not used for dining in years. It seemed worth preserving.


Well and properly I sit here by my lonely dinner, somebody assessing the miniature violet daisies and field flowers aglow in their vase; I keep that filled with fresh flowers for you. The houseplants grow perceptibly and vigorously green, day by day; some we nursed to health as little things when we first met. The sounding board of classical piano fills the room, our radio bringing the room alive, as we always did.

And reflections of interior lighting and illuminated walls, these overlay the exterior panes with a layer of light and color that we loved.

But through all this I see the piercing blackness of a cold winter night. I can sense all this and there is no one to tell. Your place at the table is empty, and I am free to reflect in my own time and place on an abstract beauty that has no specific concrete value to me now. I, the neutral spectator, watch myself watch the world, and it watches me to see, I suppose, whether I shall still wash the dishes because they are there to be done as I always do them, or whether, perhaps, I shall just leave them for a different me to do another day.

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