I left New York City and Campbell after Gabriel had been dead for three years. I moved to a cottage home on the coast of Ireland on a bluff overlooking the Irish Sea. I lived there until I was seventy eight, alone, and uninspired to do anything but grieve everyday until the day I died. I saw Campbell every summer and we grew weary of our burden and eventually loved each other again for all that had happened between us. Campbell died in this cottage five years before me, never speaking of Gabriel, but forever reflected his love and longing for days passed by, in the way he stood at the mantel and stared at the picture’s displayed.

I was weak from cancer and fell bed ridden my last few days of life. Before I grew too tired to move, I went to the closet, pulled down my mismatched plaid luggage and had my housekeeper open it. For the first time since that awful night, it was opened. Inside lay the blood stained, hippopotamus costume I made for Gabriel. She pulled it out and I hugged it like he was still inside, amazed at how tall Gabriel had grown in those short eight years. She held it up while I gazed upon it, and told her not to wash it, but to mail it carefully to a Mr. Morris Jones.

More Tomorrow!