Many years ago he’d decided that, much like God, poetic love wasn’t real. But that left no explanation for what had come squirting out of Jack’s eyes in a complete stranger’s living room at the mere mention of his wife’s name? What was it that could arouse such a palpable memory from a weathered postcard? What was it that had brought a renewed smile to his wrinkled old face the moment his mind was allowed to detach itself from the realities of the present heartbreak, if not love? Pg. 74
Gerred Lee 