by Shelby Feeney
His favorite thing to do was carry her around on his shoulders.
He felt like in some way, the whole world was on his shoulders
I guess in some way it was.
She would squeal in delight and spread her arms wide like wings. It felt like she was flying.
I guess in some way, she was.
He never broke a sweat. She was never scared.
He made weird faces a lot. And voices. He was good at mimicking other people. Sometimes he did them better then they did
themselves. He was goofy. Odd. He loved to make people laugh. He knew when to be serious, too. He knew when you needed
to smile, or needed to talk. He was just that kind of guy.
He sucked at himself though. He could never get his emotions into words. Not that he liked the English language anyway. He
needed someone to balance himself out. Someone who could read what he was trying to say without saying it. Someone who
could validate his thoughts with sentences.
Well, he tried, I guess. She liked to believe she was good at putting emotion into words. But truth was she just sucked at
emotion, period. Be it his or hers. But to him, she was everything he needed. A reminder that not everything has a bleak
They had bumps. And bruises. Some darker then others.
But they got through it.
And 87 years later, he still picks up a bouquet of flowers from the shop every Monday and Thursday to put on her grave. He
picks a single daisy every day from the wild patches that grew in the forest behind their house to put on her pillow. The
colors matched her smile. The smell of her, too.
Their love never died.
And it’s the kind of love that never will.