Beggars for Roses

The Rock

I was sitting at the small desk in the

corner room. Nina's desk. Nina's room. She

had barely been allowed to stay in it.

After she had agreed to draw up her

memoirs before her cancer became too

painful, she had used this desk for writing.

For all of three weeks.

                                           I had taken to

coming in here, using this desk, in her

absence, especially when my readings

or writings were of the personal kind.

It made me feel... more in touch with myself,

I guess.

                Morning today, Mathew had proved

to be prompt. He had heaved a bulging box

folder in my hands and snarled:

                                                                   "You won't be

getting any stories from me. You'll find

everything in there."

                                              I had hardly slept

last night. That was not the unusual

part. There was no restfulness, no fancies,

no nightly daydreaming, no distractions,

no fussing around my studio to

catch up on long-held hobbies, no going

through Nina's memorabilia still

left in her closet, no sitting down to

work with inspiration from Maria's

nightly routine for like the thousandth time,

no swimming, no TV, no reading, no

strolling down to the kitchen to fill up

with leftovers from earlier cooking,

no not nothing.

                                 I had just lain, stared up

at the ceiling, spreadeagled. Didn't see

a ceiling though. Just a huge vacuum right

in front of my eyes, boundless, utterly

absent of light, literal or else. Just

a heavy inky blank threatening to

engulf the little boy gazing up at

it. That's how vulnerable my recent

discovery had left me, shaken to

the core.

                   Was this depression? Nina's death

hadn't caused a plunge like this. At least it

was filled with all those memories. I would

take out my bundle of pictures and go

through them yet another time. Or, I would