When winter drags her feet through the snow
leaving trails where the tips of grass long suffocated
and birds flock to brown, dried dead sunflower heads
I try to remember your smiling eyes.
Was it so many years ago when trails were
made by our young footsteps lightly treading on
spring grasses and leaving only the scent of love in the air behind us?
Mourning depletes my spirit.
I never said I wouldnít miss you,
only that it was alright to go.
Do I regret it?
That permission, was your key to enter the unknown
and my gauntlet to run, with flat affect.
No, I would not have held you to your promise when
doing so only caused you pain;
even when it caused me mine.
My heart literally stopped yesterday when I found a single strand of your
hair on the closet floor. How did I see it? What was I doing in there anyway?
Had you been there, watching me sleep?
I could only hope, and wonder.
I placed it between the pages of a book we once read together
then held it to my chest while the heaving came.
I am weary of do gooders who come calling
at the most inopportune times and make idle chatter.
No one knew what to say then, or now.
Death is the one time it seems people are at a loss for words.
They mean well, I know; and you would tell me
to be grateful when all I want is to be alone with thoughts of you.
Selfish, isnít it?
Not your way at all.
You would have invited them in and said," Marjory, put on the coffee!"
Time doesnít heal wounds;
only death accomplishes that.
The great eraser of sins and dreams,
sorrow and victory, all gone, within a single last sigh.
Even the food, what I manage to eat, is void of flavor.
Whoever said canned pasta would sell, never ate it.
How long can one exist this way?
Months? Years? I donít care to be brave and find out.
No, no. That was you role, the brave one.
Now I drag my feet around the house,
tending our orchids and listening to our favorite tunes
from musicals like Oklahoma! And watch reruns of
old home videos, still in flannel, drinking coffee out of your mug.
Do you miss coffee where you are?
You would never approve, but you are not here to reprimand me,
are you? Shame on you for leaving, shame on me for letting you go.
Shame on death, and life, and winter too!
I cannot see an end to her trails, but ours lingers two miles
down St. Georgeís Road, stopping with a headstone bearing your name in the
lower part of the cemetery.
I suppose they think I need this map to remember where you rest.
Some days, I cannot wait to fill the plot beside you.