Andromeda
By J. L. Young

Her voice still echoes in my head. The soliloquies she whispered to bring her cerebrations into focus. I can recall when those words were brought to absolute clarity and her smile as she emphatically scribbled them down.

I found it strange she found the kitchen the best place in the house for her art studio. Then I realized just how practical it was. My wife’s literal compositions stacked to perfection covered a family-sized darkly stained table. A simple desk just wouldn’t do.

It could be my imagination, but the leather chair was still warm to the touch. Even after all this time, I couldn’t bear to sit in it. It somehow felt sacred, as if my wife would frown up me to do so.

On a shelf in the living room, her novels rested. I cracked one open and the little squiggles became her words, her thoughts. As I read on, I heard her voice reading the words as they pulled me into the narrative. I remember when she struggled to continue a chapter, she would seek my assistance. I was no more than a sounding board for her to shape her character’s ideas, motives, and actions.

I realized a pain in my heart and slipped the novel back onto the shelf. A solitary and solemn tear was birthed and fell. She never bled from the wounds and all I ever saw was her resilience. If I was in any way able to assuage any of the dark claws that tore at Andromeda’s mind, I’m glad to have been that glimmer no matter how minor.