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(We had time for a second, shorter writing this day)
Prompt:
Sometimes it really is, sometimes it just seems that way
BEGIN WRITING:
His room is just the way he left it. I couldn’t make myself change it at the beginning, and now I’ve gotten used to walking past the door and seeing the tripods and light bars and other equipment that nobody ever used but him.
They told me a time would come when I’d be ready to move on, to clear his things and make room for a new life of my own. A sewing room, one of them said. Maybe a library, or how about a really big walk-in closet? You’ll know when it’s time, they said, and they patted my hand and whispered those absurd promises about keeping in touch. We’ll give you a call, maybe next week, or next month.
The phone did ring occasionally for the first few weeks, but I offered my polite refusals. No thanks, I’m not ready. Eventually, the calls stopped.
Today it’s a year, according to the calendar. An eternity, according to my heart. But my life is…going on. Sometimes it really is, sometimes it just feels that way.
PENCILS DOWN

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