Hard work

On my morning walk I would often see Mr Effigy, sitting on the verandah.
He would just be staring into space, enjoying the morning Sun.
He just sat there on an old cane chair.
Sometimes I would wave but he never waved back.
Some said he had dementia or brain damage.
At other times I would see his wife Margaret pouring him a drink.
It looked like Whiskey and milk.
He was dressed very well with a black bow tie and a white shirt.
He had a grey cardigan on and grey matching trousers.
It was obvious that Margaret went to a lot of trouble,
to make him look presentable.
It wasn’t clear if he cared much about it or not.
Every morning Mrs Effigy would guide him to his chair and leave.
She only appeared at meal times and to take him in at night.
 On day in late Spring I was walking past the house as usual.
Mr Effigy wasn’t there. All I could see was Margaret with a huge fire.
She was burning his clothes and his books and it looked like
she was burning his bed and his favourite chair.
For the first time ever she turned and smiled at me.
She waved and went back to the fire.
She looked like a person bringing forth life through fire.
She was in fact finally able to have a life of her own.
She called me over and started to cry.
“Do you know I’m happy he’s gone. If that makes me a terrible person
than so be it. I worked hard for the last twenty years making him comfortable,
I cleaned him and feed him and now I feel free.
I’m sorry but for me Love is just plain hard work.”