weeds, sculpture, bottle, and breath

The Miller sculpture stood kissing air, weeds growing at her base. Nobody sat in the garden anymore. That was why Graham did, nursing the last bit of absinthe in the big blue bottle. He marveled over Miller’s idea of a woman or that much he had been willing to commit to stone—fine white Carrera marble. In life, Ramona had taken his breath away. Sometimes, and he wouldn’t admit this to everybody, the stone woman, arched to plant a kiss on an invisible lover, still affected him as she had first done. But it was Ramona who had taken his breath, and Miller who had taken Ramona from him, leaving only as much behind, in stone, as he was willing to share. It was not enough. Thus, the need for the absinthe.