But We Can't Go Back. We Can

We Sit And Listen And Are Enthralled Anew, For Good Stories, It Seems, Never Lose Their Magic.

In The End, I Take My Shoes Off And Stick My Feet In, Letting The Lukewarm Water Lick At My Ankles. It Feels Good, And Not Just Because I’m Stoned. I Make A Mental Note To Add This To Dulcie’s List Of Things Worth Living For. For Some Reason, I Keep Seeing Her Rolling Her Eyes At Me, That Big, Goofy Grin Stretching Her Face Like Silly Putty. On My Private List, I Add Her Smile. She Doesn’t Have To Know.

I've Had So Many Bikini Waxes, I Cry Every Time I See A Popsicle Stick.

Evie Was So Nervous That She Downed Her Cocktail In Two Stiff Swigs, Then Refilled Her Glass. Henry Arched An Eyebrow. “a Pro, I See.” “what Else Is There To Do In Ohio?

Evie Hadn’t Always Felt That Way. For A Year After James Had Died, She’d Cupped His Half-dollar Pendant Between Her Pressed Palms And Prayed Fervently For A Miracle, For A Telegram That Would Say Good News! It Was A Terrible Mistake, And Private James Xavier O’neill Has Been Found, Safe, In A Farmhouse In France. But No Such Telegram Ever Arrived, And Whatever Possible Faith Might Have Bloomed In Evie Withered And Died. Now She Saw It As Just Another Advertisement For A Life That Belonged To A Previous Generation And Held No Meaning For Hers.