I held my true love in my arms, pulled snug against my chest, and sighed out my frustration, my anger, my loss. I gave my true love the gentlest of hugs and he sighed back, deep, breathy and so chordant.
Joe had walked out the door three days before. My husband Joe. Enough was Enough he had said as he folded his overcoat over his arm, compressed the brown, beaver fur felt Homburg over his deep, furrowed brow and thinning dome, took up his leather satchel and, only for spite, my grandmother's floral overnight case. He turned on his polished cordovan brogue heel and exited with a giant nasally expellation of finality.
I'd instinctively wiped my nose on my sleeve, pushed my curls out of place, smoothed down my non-existent apron, padded in my slippered feet across the path of strewn rag rugs that led to my wooden chair by the fire, now diminished to a low glow. My true love perched atop my chair, holding his breath tight as a treasure.
I hefted the weight of my true love, weaving my arms around and thru the bulk of him and sat him sturdy and sure on my lap on my chair near my fire in my home. A tiny toe tap. A deep breath in. My true love relaxed into the pull of my arms, pouring out a sigh in G minor, lavishing me with melodies as my heart broke out of my fingers on to his keys - a song of loss and hope.
