Blueberry Whine
Outside, the face of a sunny Monday has collapsed into darkness. Inside, blueberry wine is poured into a stained coffee mug. Because it was her favorite. But I can’t even do that without somehow soiling it. It was a long battle. One she had fought previously on two occasions. And somehow managed to win. But the third time was not her charm. Those misguided percentages were just another fucking lie. Through it all, I cheered for her. Celebrated her songs. Learned all the words. Debated that cross-country trip when I first heard the news. She helped me to live; I wanted to help her die. But, I didn’t go. Because when that idea was proposed, we were still lying to ourselves—everything would be okay. …
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