After the whiskey was gone

After the whiskey was gone there were no more words. That didn’t matter; I had run out of things to write on.
I sat out on our porch remembering how she had put so much love into the garden, determined with her small hands and that white hat protecting her face from the sun.
Occasionally, I noticed the icy wind biting through my coat but the fragrance of her pale skin and the way her nose would wrinkle when she laughed lingered in my mind and I could not leave.
That night I imagined I heard the sound of a lone goose loosing his mind out on the water and I never woke.

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