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March 6, 2019 Fiction

Instructions for Mourning

Troy James Weaver

Instructions for Mourning photo

She had come in pieces two weeks earlier with no instructions. I had to send off for them and wait. After a month, I found her instructions in the mailbox. I put a stone at each corner of the paper to hold it still beneath the fan in our bedroom. The instructions were simple. I had her pieced together in less than an hour. But when I got up and stood her up so we could stand side by side together, she had a wobbly leg. I leaned her against the bed and tightened the bolt, got her back on her feet again, poised, perfect. And put her down, laid her down, and slipped her head on her pillow on our bed. Then I slid mine right beside it. Her bald head startled me. It made me think of my wife, back when she was sick, before and after she died. I found the black bag amongst the rubble of her packaging, pulled her hair from it. The little tube of glue was hidden at the bottom. I got the glue on her hair and her hair on her head. I decided to get some more light in the room so I could take her all in. I flipped on the lamps and opened the blinds. She almost gleamed, near shiny, just as I dreamed she would. We lived like this forever, or nearly so. Whatever forever we had. 

I still have her other wigs in a box somewhere. I have not found the instructions to find them.

 

image: Amber Lamoreaux


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