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Scott MacLeod's avatar

Robert almost ignored the blurry flashing reds in his rear view. He sped up for a moment, considered jumping the divider into oncoming traffic. Then finally pulled over.

The cop was ready to write him up for $250 for riding solo in the carpool lane.

Then he saw the haunted, red eyes. The wrinkled black suit, tie undone. The memorial service program and wilted bouquet beside it.

Pocketed his pad. He knew from experience, this poor bastard would be riding with this passenger for a long time, maybe forever.

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Jennifer Peaslee's avatar

A Funeral for the Living

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They talk about grieving the dead, but no one talks about grieving the living.

I lost you, same as if you’d died. I’ll never know you again. Never hear your voice or greet your cat or try your cooking or argue with you or smoke with you or—

The list goes on infinitely. Because I forced you out. Because I made you go. Because you are gone, a four-letter word that means at least one heart torn apart.

Three years, one month, and sixteen days, and I’m still grieving you.

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