I brush the image of your face
as I would a soft petal rose.
At that precise moment, a tiny
teardrop cascades like rain.
Recalling that moment I strain to hear
your voice.
“Darling, are you home? I miss you.”
I pick up the pen that you once used,
and my memory becomes a letter.
Those not-too-long-ago memories
I can still recall with ease.
I stand, my point is made!
My letter is lost somewhere in time,
I can’t recall how far away.
We held our lives together but,
somehow our hands let go.
Our ivory towers of learning still hang
over the mantelpiece.
I touch your name
and, an angel speaks.
The child we begat laughs down at me.
As I sit, read your life, the pages flutter and crumble to the floor.
Looking down I see your face
etched forever on our wooden floor.
I stoop so as not to fall with age.
I cannot wait to see you,
the wait is lost on me…
ED. NOTE: Grivas writes from North Cape May.
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