4/15/12

COMB
By Ignatius Valentine Aloysius


We stayed in her room, because it was the right thing to do. That evening, I sat in a corner, wordless, attentive, and tired, as you were too; but you stood by her bedside instead with a comb in your hand, and you brushed her hair and made it pretty again, while she fed on oxygen and lay still in a prolonged sleep, her pale fingers just a few breaths away from giving up their trace on the pulse of this world. That was love, what you did for her. That was manifest love, and she must have understood it as the last enduring act of tenderness she would savor in the grand illumination that is beyond our sphere. She heard us in the room, you know; she heard us there with her, it’s true. She lingered and shared the pleasure of your comb, your intention, your heart, because the room became more peaceful than the underside of a dove’s velvet wings. Later that night, as we took our long, weary sleep elsewhere, love came for her in sweet light, and tapped its invitation on her life’s door.

~ for Barb


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Ignatius Valentine Aloysius lives and breathes in Evanston, Illinois, and he writes to save his life. He also has a degree in English with a focus on creative writing from Vermont College in Montpelier, VT. His work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Gander Press Review, Six Sentences, and Suite 101.