Fiction: A Widow’s Tale

Posted: June 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

series of dreams II

Vagabond

It was 1940 and I had buried my husband, Abel Thatcher, during a hot and humid Georgian summer, the year before. At the age of thirty-nine, he went to sleep one night and never woke up. His death didn’t surprise me since he drank hard liquor every evening when he returned from the fields, drenched in sweat. He wasn’t much to look at but he was my husband. And so it was that everything he owned fell into my possession. I lived in his two-story white frame house and had funds to live in a comfortable manner, even though we’d never been husband and wife in a marital sense. We shared separate bedrooms.

Able never laid a finger on me––not one kiss. He asked that the meals be cooked on time and the house cleaned with not a speck of dust left on the mantle. I lived in silence…

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