mary duquette
writer
Eli was the middle child, and mom’s favorite – even though she’d never admit it. He was the dreaming child – the resourceful. His gentleness could hit you in the eye. He had a zillion plans and all the energy to do them, but even in his best resolute soundness he still seemed to me just my kid brother, born into a tumultuous world of traps and daggers and open jaws. I looked after him as if he were a fledgling, delicate - although it was a disservice. He was full of wildfire and energy, and often put my hyper-vigilant overprotection to shame. - On the Nights the Ocean Froze, Stratham Magazine, 2018
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Her perception of him, at that second, blossomed from images conjured like smoke from a pipe to an honest, almost elegant, almost poignant (it seemed to Valerie) figure of what Bridgton actually was. His paintings held testimony to the small life he wanted the world to see - a life probably full of dreams and china teacups and rainy Sundays with woolen afghans. Heartbreak, and rage, and ecstasy. And loneliness. Valerie shifted her feet, the implication of that last thought manipulating her, as it did, into an urgent need to paint.
- Masterpieces, Murder Ink Anthology, 2018
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email: maryelise555@gmail.com