| Audrey Friedman |
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| Passing Through The chair rocked, making squeaky sounds as it rubbed against the polished wood floor. The raspy sound of Mr. Fogarty's breathing could clearly be heard. His favorite brown pottery mug rested on the table beside the walnut rocker, and the hot chocolate steaming from it a half hour ago was now gone. Mrs. Fogarty made the cocoa every night at eight. Her husband came to visit her at precisely that time each night. It had all become a ritual. "Why, my dear," asked Mrs. Fogarty, "do you come with so little to say?" "I was never the conversationalist, Martha. That hasn't changed, no matter what else has." He seemed content just to sit. The chair gently rocked at nine o'clock. He was done, and was getting up to leave. Moisture in the corner of Martha's eyes formed a tear, despite her efforts not to cry. "Not necessary tonight, my love," he whispered, and motioned for her to follow him. "You can come with me now." The air sparkled as Mr. Fogarty shuffled towards the closed door, and disappeared through the wood. Mrs. Fogarty sighed and did the same. |
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