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| Photo by T. B. Smith |
He writes words no one reads.“It’s like talking across my table to an empty chair,” he will tell you.
We walk the shaded path together through the trees, he with his cane and I with my hands behind my back.
“Tell me…” I ask.
“What is it that compels you to write?”
The question goes unanswered, mired in silence. He presumes I lack the experience to understand.
But I do.
It is the whisper of a name. The hint of a presence. The finding of a keepsake.
A rustling of leaves overhead causes him to stop and look up. Unseen, she sneaks up behind him and ever so gently touches him on the sleeve.
He turns to no one there.
It is the vestige of a memory… the one that sits at his table, while he writes.
