Every day writing is over but missed

April is over, but still the need to write every day is there. Like an addiction to slot machines or sleeping pills, but a much healthier desire. So is today's deposit.

The Peacock Blue Cashmere Sweater

that you bought me for Christmas still lies in the drawer where I put it on the 28th of December. I should have told you when I opened the beautifully wrapped gift from Sax Fifth Avenue that I find cashmere itchy, but I couldn’t, not with Mother there beaming with joy that all her family had flown to Vancouver this year. She would have made me feel guilty like she always does. I opened the drawer just this morning to get something warm to wear while I walk along the seawall with Uncle Bob and his dog Archie and saw it there grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat. Then I knew I had to write you and tell you the truth. We could never keep secrets from each other, could we? No, I don’t want to exchange or return it, because the colour reminds me of that painting we saw at the National Gallery when I visited you last August. Remember we sat on the room bench for hours and just stared at Christopher Pratt’s Newfoundland landscapes. Was that why you bought me such an expensive cashmere sweater? Then I’ll just drape it over my shoulders when I get cold and think back to that warm, sunny day we walked to Byward Market for tea and cakes and we talked about hopes and dreams, and reality.

© April 2020