It goes without saying that conversations that needn’t be repeated have come to pass behind closed doors. The looking glass dare not venture there, but the ear has, more than once, so slyly crept.
I sit in bed alone, reading a novel, then i hear the words “Go to sleep” behind me. It’s just my dad, and i realize my father was buried with my mother three years ago.
The two sisters, as young girls, braided each others hair, borrowed sweaters, met boys at dances, and shared endless secrets, dreams, hopes and fears.
The two old sisters, both now widowed, wash each others hair, borrow sweaters, visit their husband’s graves, share a lifetime’s memories, griefs, and experiences and, while holding hands, enjoy the sunset of their lives.
At five in the a.m. I drudged outside in the sodden morning. Thank goodness my dog would be doing most of the work.
I’m not truly convinced it is summer until the apple tree is the perfect shade of sunrise-pink. And then I climb into the branches and wait for you to come home.
A small smile played on his lips as he thought back to the moment he had taken her life and how it filled him with utter satisfaction to press his thumbs deep into her throat as she tried to cry out and how with each breath wasted on cries for help he would press his fingers tighter in a cold calculating squeeze until finally her body went lifeless filling him with the power of her death. His smile faded as he snapped out of his memories upon hearing the metal bars of his cage slide shut confining him for the rest of his natural life or until they decided if he was worthy of the needle.
As she saw her love make his dramatic exit, she quickly realised what she had done wrong-she had never loved him for his caring self, his reassuring smile, his warm touch-she only cared about his eyes, his white teeth, and smooth hands.
She quickly went up to him, but it was too late for his eyes were now a dull brown, his teeth a cringing yellow, and his hands scarred and reddened by catharsis.