Colorless Love
Tim Putnam


A s Rhonda looked into his eyes, she couldn't help but remember, they used to be green. Reminiscent of two deep glacial pools, gazing into Tom's eyes had warmed her heart at the altar that June evening in 1942.
Then, fifteen years ago, they were young.
Then, there was love.
Once green, now as black as tar.
The cancer had burned the pigment from Tom's eyes, just as it had the life from his soul.
As Rhonda looked into this shell that held once her beloved, and then her most hated, healed were the screaming matches that woke the neighbors.
Healed was Tom at the door at first crying to see his children, then breaking the door with a car jack.
Healed was the black eye.
Left was a huge, unsightly scar, marring the memory of where love once lived. On many dark nights, crying with her head under the pillow, she fantasized about him lying helpless.
It had been six years. The shock of finding this once hulk of a man as firm as warm jelly was not fantastic. It was unbearable.
Gently, she drew his eyelids down like shades to block out the night.
Her hand moved from Tom's eyes to slide a thin piece of celluloid out of the dead man's throat.
They used to be green. The nurses rushed in, reacting to the flat heart monitor.
Rhonda had sworn she wouldn't.



First published: October 31, 1998
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