ACTIAS LUNA

by Dawn Allison

Life was empty inside the house on the hill. It took James months to work up to going through his wife's things, getting rid of them bit by bit. One day his sister visited and together they'd packed up all her clothes. She took them to Goodwill because he couldn't bear it. Days later he moved on to the next thing, her little knickknacks and mementos, starting with the ashtrays on the end tables, the white paper of the cigarette butts smudged with her lipstick. As long as they sat there half-full, he could almost convince himself that any minute she might come home. He dropped them into the trash, winced at the hollow thud as they hit bottom.
     A week later he gathered her journals, 20 years of musings on their life together. He packed them into a plastic bin, unable to bring himself to examine their lives between the covers, but also unable to dispose of them. He meant to build a pyre and burn them, to let her words hang on the smoke before drifting up to heaven. He couldn't do it. The bin sat in the living room collecting dust until he finally put the television on top of it. Now it served some logical purpose and his sister couldn't insist that he get rid of it.      NEXT