Two weeks ago— an anniversary of sorts. Lise glances at the moth-eaten sweater hugging the chair. She clinks her mug to his, whispers her mantra 'may you be peaceful and serene.' Silently Jean replies, 'mon amour pour toujours'.
After breakfast she dons her red puffy coat, the rabbit hair thing he dubbed her 'Fargo' hat, pulls on her smelly boots and curls his blue chequered scarf with its whiff of Old Spice around her throat before unbolting the door and. . . she stops.
"Don't forget your mask," he always said.
Memories are made of this.
After breakfast she dons her red puffy coat, the rabbit hair thing he dubbed her 'Fargo' hat, pulls on her smelly boots and curls his blue chequered scarf with its whiff of Old Spice around her throat before unbolting the door and. . . she stops.
"Don't forget your mask," he always said.
Memories are made of this.
