- the dreaming Press.

January 20, 2011

Shoes that fit your feet alone.

Shoes you've worn through wintry weather, through the grocery store, in the queue at church.

Comfortable. Yours. Worn in to your gait, leaning to or fro. Worn on one side. Scuffed toe.

Parked beside your bed. Waiting for your feet but your feet will never step into them again.

I sit. I see you. I see how alike we are. How our faces could have most definitely been carved from the same model. Our mannerisms when you were once more animated, were nearly twinned.

Your daughter's teeth and mine, interchangeable. So alike in size, shape and shift.

I pray. <----{thank you}

You are one.

Three preceded you. {Three await, smiling-anxious.}

Talk from the kitchen scares me. It seems disconnected, yet in reality-it is entirely grounded. Spirit & practicality do not mix & mingle well it would seem.

Vacations not taken. Regrets. Sighs.

Unmentionable sadness pervades.

You breathe in, you breathe out. It is purposeful, wilful. I'm not surprised.

When our eyes met on Tuesday-yours (and I'm sure mine) lit up with a sparkling recognition & I felt such love for you. If you must leave then do so. We weren't meant to live forever here. But take with you some of us, will you? A part of us that will remain with you forever until we meet again.

I close my eyes. I'm six. You are serving me a charcoal grilled steak and a garden salad in a wooden bowl-we are seated at the wooden picnic table. You smile at me. We are in your backyard, which went on for miles and miles then sloped down towards a park.

I close my eyes. I'm fifteen. I'm in your house in Florida. I'm sneaking out for a cigarette. Grandma is feeding me so much that I return home almost ten pounds heavier.

I close my eyes. I'm remembering the bright orange Volkswagon Beetle you drove. I smile.

When we went to leave on Tuesday, you grabbed Olivia's hand and said, "May God bless you forever."

We drove home silently in tears.

Posted at 11:50 PM | Permalink