02 Apr

How is love to be measured?

A familiar place, this suburb, at the foot of a range of hills, I am returning to; visiting the house I used to live. The lawn is still tidy and inviting. The sun still shines brightly. How many afternoons I had spent with him, sitting here, sipping wine, relaxing under the shade of an old oak tree. Things do not seem to have changed, at least the appearance. I walk past the fence and knock on the door with uncertainty; hoping and not hoping he will come to answer it. Memories flooded in. Has it been twenty years now since I walked out of this house in anger? His shadow has been following me all these years. Have things changed? How is love to be measured? Only when it lives? Or when it refuses to die! The door opens...

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