ragged ends

After the meeting, I asked her how she was.
She looked well, after all; and it had been a year
since the funeral. The colour was back in her cheeks
and in her clothing, so I thought it was all right
to ask. She smiled and told me she had been
Christmas shopping in Montréal and
was having dinner with some friends that evening.
But as she turned away, I heard a sip, an intake
a breath that wanted to be something else. For
a moment she glanced back at me, her mouth open;
her eyes reddened, moist, fierce.
I saw a howl forming; she sighed and smiled.
She went over to join her friends who turned to
include her. Abruptly she patted one on the hand
and turned back to me. It must be pretty hard,
I said. It’s as if I’ve stopped making memories,
she said. Joy without memories is too painful.
I want to scream, but I can’t; so I keep talking.
At least that’s what I understood, but she was still
talking to her friends, and I was helpless watching.

(Visited 27 times, 1 visits today)
FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
This entry was posted in aging, Poetry, thoughts below ground and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to ragged ends

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.