What It’s Like
I miss you like an old man misses the red-faced lad who cut his grass for years before his wife died, and for years after her going, and who called him pops and drank beers with him from a cooler between the lawn chairs, with evening swimming on and the milky drippings of stars and the warm asthmatic silence. The pair would talk in sighs, desiring or letting go, the chairs bearing them into the growing anonymity. “That must be Gawd,” the lad would say, and the old man would get weepy in the blue dark, wiggling his...
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