• saoirse_ 187w

    #09

    Dear Diary,

     

    I saw her today. It has been fifty eight years since I last saw her. Fifty eight years since we bade our farewells and fifty eight years since I’d loved her.

    At this point in time I can only wish that she, like me is sitting at her study writing in her almanac because that’s what we did in our day. The children of my nieces and nephews, they just use their phones. Us? We prefer to write our closest emotions in our closest possession.

    Where was I again? Oh, her.

    Yes, well I saw her at the marketplace today. The younger ones ask us to call it a mall. Still, a marketplace is what I consider proper. She was there, dressed like she always was. Plain long-sleeved shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a long rustic skirt, vibrant in colour and loaded with prints. This she paired with one of her “statement” scarves. “Jimmy,” she would say, “You simply do not understand. Girls nowadays do not appreciate the importance of a statement scarf. Tie it how you want, it adds to the whole POP of the entire get-up!” I wonder what she would say about how girls dressed up these days. I imagine the conversation going like this, “Oh horror Jimmy! Do not tell me girls are wearing their bicycle shorts as part of vogue these days….”

    Old age had done her good. She had aged gracefully. Her voluminous chestnut hair had turned grey and what used to be a short bob had now become chest length hair. It was poker straight still, but it waved at the bottom. Her features were set in stone. Her nose hadn’t dissolved into pudge. (I know mine has) Her smooth skin had become crinkled and her graceful gait had become elephantine but all in all Kendra Orwell still looked beautiful.

    I didn’t talk to her though. I don’t think she noticed me standing there watching her.

    You see, greed is an unforgiving thing. Nothing satiates it. First, it makes you crave for a beautiful wife and then it turns you to the bottle and the bottle turns you into a monstrous wreck of a man and then, when the same bottle that you seek succour in, turns against you? Well, you take your final plunge.

     

    That’s probably the reason why Kendra couldn’t see me. I was perhaps, just an apparition to her. All dead people are apparitions, really.

     

    Yours sincerely,

    Jimmy Orwell

    °

    Saoirse

    @writersnetwork

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    Apparitions