She was a mill worker. She walked up and down the same stretch of worn wooden floor, smooth and oiled and impregnated with the shiny little metal rings my father called travelers, in front of the same four machines for four decades. Maybe more. Until she didn’t. They closed down the mill. They closed down her life.
Hanging, I think it was.
He was a social worker. Good guy. Ready smile. Caring disposition. Gave all he had.
He was an artist and a friend. Lived in a great city. Cared. Created. Loved. Yearned. Loneliness was just too big a subject to subdue with kayaks and marsh grass and sunshine and palette and paint.
Left so many things, hanging...
They were famous. He, the bad boy, tatted up, ruggedly handsome, traveling the world. Sheep testicles and eyeballs. She the simply, straightforwardly beautiful one. Color, style, functional beauty. Bagged it.
Life, hanging in the balance.
Don’t cry because they’re over.
Smile because they happened.