#Eight~Missing You

Dear J,

I was missing you, am missing you. Your smirky grace and denim pedal pushers, your chicken and biscuits, your abiding love. I wonder back on your last weeks and days, your last breaths. Your pain and life purpose. 

A mother of five, a husband with needs, waiting.

A big house, sunshine.

What is it you miss? What might you regret?

What might you offer to me to blossom, to bloom, to grow?

What was the taste of love that died with you—the taste of your love?

Each of us with a different potion—a small slim bottle called remedy.

Where do you sit now? I feel you sometimes on the edge of my bed. 

A pressure that is holding a space. Do you see me, us? 

Do you feel this breeze, see theses shadows dancing?

Do you smell the chopped herbs? Hear the laughter of others?

I am searching, on the search, seeking, hunting, hoping a place, a soil. 

A soul. A way to be.

There are purple flowers that have left the plant hanging from a metal scroll.

They are dying.