Saudade (a short short)

She is here in my missing her. I saw her yesterday in the space between the window and the curtain. This morning, where the sunlight dusted the arm of the couch. This is her ghost, I think, except I refuse to believe that she’s dead. It wasn’t so, when I last saw her. She was full of that kind of life that had used to twist me in the deeper caverns of my chest. But now, seeing the trace of her there, where she would sit pestering me as I tried to read, I begin to lose faith. Maybe it is her ghost, haunting me. Only the haunting has such a flavor … a taste of her … that I can’t help but welcome the shadow on the shifting curtain, the trace of her on the arm of my couch, like an old friend met in the street in a town you used to know when you were younger and more generous, more apt to turn aside for a few minutes, more giving of your time.

You know this feeling?


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