• R. E. Maynard



The sun cracked across the spiral rug just around noon, as a widowed man held his late wife’s shawl while sitting in the silence of their family home. A gift for their first anniversary was the warmth of this item now ever so relevant to his heart, while thoughts of a brisk breeze led her into the depths of his cherishing soul. The warmth of his embrace ensured the comforts of such an early beginning that felt naturally amiss without her in his life anew.

Stuff sat in ideal places about the room, fading to an emptied four walls, this item that brought her unlimited smiles across her beautiful face was all that he had left, and still he held on for years on end for her commitment to reign true. Now her ailment took her soul through hellish days of an inability to recover. Unrelentingly, a favoring to her hand on his—the two spent countless hours falling in love again and again through adoring eyes, as long hours passed him through heartaches testing all that his heart had ever known, as she rested her head a home in his sincerities.

A constant beeping sounded on his memory of long sleepless nights by her hospital bedside. The proof of her ailment tortured this man’s innocence forcing him to question the very faith of their creator. Now an empty house silenced his once rejoicing voice with fearful absence of compassion for a world that would take his one true love.

He draped the shawl over his heart in an embracive attempt to still hold her near. As he dazed into a haze of exhaustion, a feeling of despair lifted from his heavily emotional state, as a vision of her loveliness fade in and out of his consciousness, but suddenly—he knew that her presence remained all along, as she whispered softly into his ear—his favorite song.

5 views0 comments