Quite a while back, on (what turned out to be) my last visit to Montgomery’s before things got ugly, I tried to imagine life without.
Because today he became technically old, and because His Beloved had enticed him to stay home and “celebrate” his birthday with only her, he poured a second leisurely cup of celebratory coffee, settled himself in at his keyboard, and tried his best to bear the change in plans.
He hoped his downtown cronies wouldn’t miss him too much.
At the café he had always frequented, the same small table by the window where he usually sat remained vacant. All the other regulars could only imagine him there among them, his journal open, its pages awaiting their capture.
all good things vanish
—even in the best of times—
winter settles in
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
~ BIRTHDAY ~