A Dove Coos
By Laura McHale Holland
With the shadows of maple leaves dancing across her face, she rests in a hammock that has seen better days. He pours lemonade and offers it to her, ice clinking against glass. She lifts her hand up but snaps it under the comforter when she sees her mottled, trembling fingers. He puts the glass on the wrought iron table by her side. A dove coos nearby. He bends down, tucks a stray strand of white hair behind her ear and wraps the comforter tighter around her slender frame. She closes her eyes. He stifles a sob, unable to envision a world that lacks her head on the pillow next to his, her dark blue eyes a lighthouse guiding his way.