The Unknown Love Altered

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A reaction to Toni Morrison's, Jazz...

Submitted: April 16, 2013

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Submitted: April 16, 2013



The Unknown Love Altered—A reaction to Toni Morrison’s, Jazz

In the mist of depression who knew that an understanding would grow?  For the I lover I had, he had a promiscuous affair that led to my wear and tear. 

Dorcas was her name, the young thing my husband abandoned me for.  She was daunted with the audacity that she was better than me and she somehow took my place.  But she didn’t raise my man out the dust like I did.  What they had was lust.  But I loved him somehow more than myself.  He was nothing like me.  My father abandoned us and left my mother with a feeling of nothing but grief and disgust so she did the unthinkable, and committed a sinful act of suicide.  I was forced to get the best love I knew how from my grandmother, but it was not as tender as a mother’s love.  But you see my  husband came from the same life of pain, so we had an instant chemistry, we wanted to better our lives with each other.  But after six miscarriages, I guess our happiness altered and caused him to do the inevitable act of adultery with an uptown fling. 

Then, he committed a senseless act of homicide when the pray no longer became enticed with their lovers’ quarrel.  She longed for a younger attraction with a man name Acton, but the devious demons of my bewildered husband got the best of him and possessed him to shoot her.  But I became enraged because I knew nothing of the tedious affair, so I showed up to her funeral and slashed her once scornful face but to no avail. 

I would soon find out that beneath every desert storm there’s a sand dome with a conscious state of mind that tells you that the three intertwined in a sense of abandon, race, and geographical neighborhoods.  For she was me, I was her, and he was a part of the glue that compacted us together.  For love can make you do some crazy things, but abandonment can make you sick and almost unreal and untrue to yourself.  It hurts you and belittles you inside and out and you long for the love of the disappearing figure.

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