Indeed,
there is a moment
when hushed memories sneak,
creeping behind you.
You hear the creak, and turn
to find those lost
those missed,
those grieved.
They’re whispers caught
on remembered phrases,
favourite songs;
you’re sure you hear their voices.
Indeed, there are moments
when ghosts hover;
in memories
their love remains.
Sculpting honey?
Pointless.
Shapes dissolve in moments,
dissappear in the gleaming
sweetness of now–
much like
memories
of you.
I looked for you.
I peered deep into your eyes
searching.
You were not there,
the hollow globes blinked blankly,
soul flown,
arms embracing expectation
empty future.
I looked for you.
You were not there.
Tomorrow I will look
again.
I’m waffle making
and suddenly
the loss of you
is palpable.
Did I ever make you waffles?
Still, your absence at this moment
overwhelms me,
and I fill the emptiness
with tears.
Two days
Twice bereft
Two losses
barely found.
Possibility snatched away
leaves me
longing.
Misty’s shoes
attended graduation,
tramping up and down the stairs,
standing at the podium as
name after name was read
each biography
each list of scholarships.
Dancing for young people,
leaping off into the unknown.
Misty’s shoes were there,
celebrating a roomful of potential
that Misty will never know.
.
.
.
A few years ago on eBay I purchased a pair of stunning black and white spectator pumps (Listen Up Harlow by John Fluevog). While corresponding with the seller, I was told that they were her deceased sister’s shoes. Misty had passed away from cystic fibrosis. I was touched by the story, and wrote a character named after her into the novel I was writing at the time. Misty loved shoes and dancing and her passions fueled her story line in Grace Awakening Myth. (GA Myth is still in editing and revisions. Not sure that sub-plot will make the cut, actually). Thinking about Misty while wearing her shoes at my school’s grad this week, I remembered young people I knew who passed away far too young.
I pass the old man
on his balcony.
Huge sunglasses
through which he watches
like a
diurnal owl;
the world unfolds below him.
Just like my dad liked to sit.
I don’t wipe away
my tear.
I feel your ethereal pride
in my accomplishment
as firmly as I used to feel
your embrace.
I found your cardigan
and held it close
searching for the sensation of your arms.
I gathered up the folds
and held it to my nose
searching for the scent of you.
You’ve been gone too long.
Instead of holding memories
Now
it’s just a sweater
you once wore.
This was your toothpaste.
The tube still holds the contours of your fist
the last squeeze you gave it.
I wrap my hand around
imagine your grip,
the skin on your hand like satin tissue
squeezing paste to scrub your teeth.
It is a long time before I can remove the lid
and squeeze the paste onto my own brush.
Remembering your hand
holding mine.
Shawn L. Bird 