Late to rest, early to rise, she gets bored and her old hips have got nothing to do. She carves a single notch on the baseboard each and every time she dreams of you. Thick-mattressed, four-posters are for lovers. She gave away your bed to the neighbors, and now their dog sleeps atop the covers. The floor is cold, but she still remembers. Mornings she spends in a hard, kitchen chair before the sun has a chance to beg her to sleep a while longer and meet you there. She pours coffee for two. Black. No creamer. It’s in the mornings she misses you most, when she feeds the dog your uneaten toast.
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Eve Brackenbury
Eve Brackenbury lives in Midwest, USA. As a history interpreter, she can tell you that it used to be called the Far West in the early 1800s. She’s the author of three books of poetry and has found homes in a number of anthologies, journals, and e-zines. A Civil War Paranormal Investigator once swore she channeled the voice of a dead, confederate widow. But Eve laughed it off and rolled her eyes just a little bit.