February again, the month when many couples marry; but Groundhog Day marked 43 years since a judge slammed gavel on her pathetically foolish, but blessedly brief union which had shattered innocent trust and rent last remnant of naïve belief in a benign world.
There’d been a time when she could joke about her Groundhog Day divorce, referencing the comic film about a fictitious weather reporter’s repeating February 2nd.
But now she plowed through that annual reminder the way she recalled snowplows taking out behemoth snowdrift-walls in her short-stemmed childhood, following blizzards which typically cancelled school for a day or two.
Winter was far less snowy where she found herself in this senior season, though torrential pewter rains turned easily to treacherous ice, embroidering chill vista of her chosen seclusion.
Squinting out the window she observed somber twilight, felt her days slipping by in stealthy arrhythmic tachycardia she welcomed.
Too many calendars—glossy pages casting fantasies of escape denied, and packed in faded floral lingerie box—mocked her yearning to abandon Life in the same way it had shown a cold shoulder to her in every awkwardly plowed phase.
Six Sentence Stories is hosted by Denise each week, and the prompt word this time is PLOW.
©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.