Loquacity, desolate, garbed
Clara looked so desolate when I last visited her. Her husband’s sudden demise had affected her so much. Garbed in a black mourning dress, she had appeared twenty years older than her real age.
This time round she looked better, it seemed she had found closure. As I came to her house, she was already there, in her front yard waiting for me. She welcomed me with open arms, and that evening, as we sat down for dinner, she spoke a great deal about the gone days –when we were still kids back in the village. The reminiscence brought tears in both our eyes.
Her loquacity precluded my having to say more than an occasional “Yes” and “Is that a fact?” For she did tell; nothing could have stopped her telling; but she told not many facts, I think.