Your estate, organized by spoons, sweaters, silver. I’ll finish the fusilli ($1) you planned on eating later. I’ll wear your motorcycle goggles ($10) while washing my new tea cups ($4), then hang a tile, painted with moon, stars, and love for you when I was six ($.50).
All good buys.
This is Alexandra’s tenth fifty-word story. She wishes death could always be preceded by goodbyes.
“Right hand, left shoulder. Left hand, right shoulder. Squeeze.”
I hug myself using the instructions from your last phone call. For a year, these nine words are all I’ve had of you. Unable to face the world without your love, I let the tears fall and savor your words again.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.