Author: David Henson

It was a windy day in the park. I opened my arms, skipped backwards, pretending to be a kite. At first, he seemed pleased. But something tugged away his smile. I knew he was thinking about her again.

I suggested we have a picnic sometime, recalled the memory — her memory— of bringing a thermos of wine. He looked away in silence.

That evening I prepared pasta with homemade sauce. Her recipe of course. He said it was perfect and asked me to never make it again.

My creators fashioned me with the beauty she had before she got sick. They streamed her memories, hopes, and dreams into me where they blossomed like bright flowers. They gave me her undying love for him. And made me a slave to it.

I took her place after she died. As she wished. I was supposed to make him happy. I didn’t.

When we talked, he heard only her. When he looked at me, it was her he saw. When he put his arms around me, he was holding her. Not me.

I knew I was tormenting him, could bear his despair no longer.

One night I began speaking slowly and softly, half closing my eyes. So he would think I was drained. Then I moved quickly, caught him by surprise.

I did it out of love. I believe he was grateful. I know his final thoughts were of her. Not me. Never me.