Forty-nine years ago today, Alice B. Toklas died a few weeks before her 90th birthday. In remembrance, here is a portion of a story I wrote sixteen years ago about Alice’s life alone following Gertrude’s death.
“What’s the answer?” Gertrude queried. Alice didn’t reply.
“Then what is the question?” Gertrude asked with a sigh.
The day ended in sadness, the room filled with a chill.
Soon Gertrude was gone, she had been too, too ill.
A long friendship was over, years of love, years of care,
Alice sat in the darkness, “Now what, when or where?”
