A Widow's Toast

Wednesday May 24, 2006

To Vera, the fall days that followed the funeral seemed to extend their reach beyond the confines of twenty-four hours, holding on as if no new day would come. The memories of her brief love moved in and out of memory like ghostly apparitions, neither fully present, nor fully dispersed. She continued many of the habits they formed during their courtship, a glass of wine or sherry in the light of dusk followed by a reading of some literary piece they were working on.

Both Vera and Baxter were writers, and both possessed that keen and sharp insight into the most mundane and ordinary occurances of life that exists as a trait among the best of writers. They had been working on a novel, together, and felt that it would be their love’s opus, a testament to the enduring action of love they lived each day. Now there was only a half-finished manuscript that rested precariously on the edge of Baxter’s desk that, like Vera’s fragile psyche, seemed poised to fall over the edge.

Vera would often stand there unflinchingly, with a glass of wine or sherry in her hand, and stare at the manuscript resting on the edge. When she came to the last drop of wine, she would raise her hand to toast the invisible past, and walk away.

In the mornings, when making breakfast, she would come back to that same desk and stare at the manuscript for a moment before going about her day. For countless days and nights, that manuscript rested there as time slipped past it. The manuscript, except for a light layer of dust, remained unchanged.

Perhaps as quickly as life had changed for her, and ripped her away from her love, it caught her again. That dusty manuscript, which remained firmly planted on the edge of the desk, never falling, never wavering, now rested on her desk, and on the first page were notes, scribbles, half-written musings, and coffee stains. Perhaps better times are coming still. . .