Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner

I seldom leave the confines of my home. Since the fever, I’ve lost all sense of time—minutes slip into hours, day turns to night, summer to autumn. Oftentimes, I’m too weak to open a window on my own. Occasionally, the help does it for me, but I’ve noticed that I can’t feel the breeze that rustles the curtain. Nor do I detect even a hint of salt or pine that typically clings to the wisps of the morning’s mist and drifts about the room. The village carpenter, whose name somehow escapes me but shouldn’t, smelled of both. I long for the love I felt for him when he’d sit at my bedside, combing my hair with his slim, sap spotted fingers. Invariably, they would catch a strand and I would try my hardest not to wince. He doesn’t visit anymore. Continue reading →