Saturday

We clink our drywhitewines and look at each other.

‘Happy Birthday.’

‘Happy Birthday.’

The crowded café noise swills around us.  I look at the tiles, the clock, wipe at my cheeks, swear.  Rachel laughs.  It is a shaky laugh.  I look at the grain of the wood table, back at her.

 

Later, both of us eyes down on the pavement, we are still in that sharing silence.  There are sighs, ‘mm’s as if she or I want to say more, or want the other to say more, and we each leave the silence open.  Neither of us venture into it.

 

At Queens’, emboldened by the wine, a little wobbly, we give chocolate cake to the Porters and try to explain.

 

But there is no explaining.  There’s nothing that will be enough.  It was Tara’s birthday on Saturday, and she wasn’t here to share it.

Tara Louise Few 1968-2013
Tara Louise Few 1968-2013
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