George held the chalk to his mouth and tried to forget how he used to write her name. If he forgot the first letter then maybe he could lose the second somewhere and then the rest would chase each other far away.For he knew that forgetting would save him from her and her life and most of all from her death which left him so alone that his words paraded their carelessness and lived on without her. Yet she was so near to him he could breathe her in, breathe her down into his chest so that she would live secretly again deeply part of all he did, all he tried to do. He would move around his day, rearranging, nodding at some face, agreeing with another, and then there she would be, watching, touching his head, reminding him.
No one compared to her. He could write that instead. He put the chalk back onto the table. The dust coated his hand and he blew on the fingers. And then he felt her hands in his hair again and he wept.