June,
Every morning, at approximately 7 o'clock, I get woken up by a phone call I dread answering. The caller usually varies, but the series of enquiries is always disconcertingly similar. The caller asks, "How are you, Paul?", and shows genuine concern for my disposition, health and ability to adjust to my new life. I usually reply to these inquiries with scripted and criptic answers which inspire temporary satisfaction and delay further intervention. Every afternoon, for the past month, I have been burdened with the responsibility of gradually tunnelling through the wall of lasagne- and casserole dishes which towers over me with heartfelt concern and attempts to convince me that I am not alone. Yet, every night, just before I fall asleep, I turn around and anticipate seeing you next to me, only to be harshly reminded of the fact that I am, in fact, alone and that you are no longer with me. This realisation leaves me tossing and turning at night, hoping that every turn might bring a new change in circumstance.
We never wanted children, at least that's what we always said. Unfortunately, we spent most of our younger evenings behind books instead of in each other's arms and consequently missed our chance. We never had the patience for pets or were bestowed with botanical talents which bore blooming blossoms. In fact, as you know very well, the only thing that mattered to each of us, was the other, and we were quite content to frequently escape to the sanctuary of isolated-togetherness which characterised our marriage. But sadly, my darling, the truth is that with every passing day I am expected to gradually retreat from our sanctuary into a world without you and that the thought thereof often leaves me shaking while the walls which once protected us now close in on me.
Junie, I tell you, it feels like my whole life has changed in the matter of weeks and that it is quite content to persist in this fashion. The other day I received a letter from the bank which made me feel faint while reading it. Essentially, it read that my pension was running out and that I had to leave our home and relocate to a smaller apartment if I wanted my pension-fund to see me through. So, as it had to be, I reluctantly embarked on the journey of packing our life away into boxes and shipping away those objects which I couldn't take with me. One of the first things I looked for was your favourite silk scarf. When I found it, I immediately picked it up and pressed it to my nose with the hopes that I would be able to smell you one last time. But, sadly, I smelled nothing and carefully packed it away with the intent of trying again another day. I have tried every day since and, sadly, everyday I have failed. But I will never stop trying.
Until next time.
All my love,
Your Paul
Dear readers,
I hope that you enjoy this short story. I have decided to structure it "short and sweet" as I really want to highlight the emotions in each letter as well as the intensity of Paul's journey. I'm not completely sure where the story is going at the moment, but I hope that you'll enjoy discovering that with me! Your commentary and support is always greatly appreciated. So, please VOTE, COMMENT & SHARE! 😁
Kindest,
-V
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Spilt Milk
Short StorySpilt Milk is a short story which tells the story of the protagonist, Paul's, acceptance of his wife, June's, death which is achieved by him writing letters to her. His grief manifests itself metaphorically through his demonstration of the early sym...
