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Digital Love
Margie brought people together. Couples spooning each other as they drifted into dreams.
Doors closing softly on a book and table with notes stuck crookedly to the fridge.
Her client wanted his picture sent to her Blackberry between condominium showings.
Investors flew in that morning. “Scallops when they sign the papers,” she laughed.
“Chardonnay all around.”
He had a jacket so supple Margie wanted her face against it. “Could I meet her next week?” he asked.
“I’m away after that - in London.” His loafers matched his jacket.
“Certainly,” said Margie. She saw them checking messages while sipping lattes and talking of careers.
This was his busy season. Giant easy chairs held them in their laps. Her season never ended.
He played squash. Did she like it? No, running was her thing. He imagined her in lycra and got
a bit hard when she walked into the washroom.
Would they think of each other’s edible parts or stroke peaches in the grocery? Did she talk about
low fat yogurt or ask which was his favorite wine? Perhaps he bought her flowers.
He gave her a card with his phone numbers and email. She gave him one, too.
The air smelled like ocean and spring and everything perfect he could imagine.
Cherry blossoms made a dome across the road. She wished she were running. Loneliness
drew a shadow on the day. He didn’t call her, but thought of her cheekbones as he paged
through his emails on the airplane. Margie promised more choices and went looking.
Birds Go On Forever
Henri sipped a cup of coffee in her old house. Scarred floors, bare walls waiting for arguments,
dreams and sleep to come. The kitchen was exhausted from a hundred years of tea pots and food
being put into cupboards. A century of women cooking, wondering if the loved ones at their
table would be happy. Or thankful for the eggs and pot roasts served up to them each day.
She walked through the empty pantry and smelled the apples stored there for so long.
They’d remind the new owners of the trees in the side yard begging to be pruned. Out
the back door now and down the quiet driveway, birds singing in the hedge. Their songs
went on forever, young ones taking up the same branch until you thought birds lived forever.
She knew their lives were short, but envied their simple mandate and fewer choices to consider.
As her world grew smaller, she felt more like the birds: small repertoire, a life one could see the end of.
The car started itself and backed slowly down the driveway. Her hands rested quietly on the wheel.
The right direction was established, a road to a new home where last boxes would be unpacked.
Where she would find the larger remnants of herself fit into smaller spaces. Soon those few rooms,
a balcony, the kitchen sink and table, would tell another story. Her life would shrink and fade,
but she was in it ‘til the end. A being whose thoughts and infrequent conversations made noise
in the universe until she no longer heard it. Then birds would sing on without her.
Judy Lightwater
Email: Judy Lightwater
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