Last night, it snowed a little. A thin patch of crushed ice lined the pavement briefly. By the morning, it was swallowed by the scalding sun, angry with the havoc caused by clouds in its absence.
In 2009, you wrote a story set in the snowy winters. Your Enid-brightened upbringing made the setting very occidental. It was about you in your 70s, frail but beautiful, living in a cottage with a tapering roof, its doors jammed by snow. Apart from you, there lived two dogs and a friend, a dear one who warmed those wicked winters for you. A friend whose fear of dogs had dissipated courtesy your company. A friend who fancied forevers and futures you uttered. A friend who played the blues on the Spanish guitar while you read A. S. Byatt's Possession for the nth time, half-smiling. A friend whom you couldn't stop loving for the past 50 years. Your story got picked by Chicken Soup For The Romantic Soul. It was published a few months later along with a corny tale by me titled, 'Will You Die For Me?' about how living is the best gift to give to someone who is no more.
It was our first published work. It was also your last. To be a writer, one needs to tell the truth. I wish you still were one.
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