His engine sputters to life on a brisk summer evening, and I refuse to admit it hurts to watch him leave. I’ve always been one to have the last words, and my pride has nailed my feet to the dirt road. My eyes strain to watch the outline of his broken down truck putt-putt down the valley of lush trees, but I turn my head and retreat into my safe haven, my home where the familiar scent of antique wood wraps my brain around the next morning’s chores. No one answered my call when I inhaled dust circling in the air. Very few times have I felt trapped behind a musty curtain of fog and ash; this is one of those times. I never knew loss; what an inconceivable feeling that forces me to retrace my four years with him.
The striated sky, hues of purple and blue and pink and orange, lingers overhead, ready to collapse, the calm before the storm.
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