Dyed the hues of harvest
the rich cloth caught my hand
while we shopped the Rue de Cler.
Plum wine and violet,
oranges, burnt to umber,
for years we shared a feast of gifts.
Ripened yellow lemons
and green of lime and grass,
raw but truthful words.
Companions with bread
we would sit at the table
graced with this reminder –
once friends in Paris.
Here’s the weird thing about death: There’s a
sensation that you’ll see her again. You know
she’s gone, but you’ll recognize her voice next
time she calls. It’s like she’s just moved away.
She could move back – or come for a visit to see
your new kitchen. You miss her and think: I’m
going to call. Then recall. Time passes without
a word. Doesn’t stop you from wondering what
to get her for Christmas. Remember? There’s a
stab of guilt, too, because you can’t think what
to get her this year, and you feel relief. But other
times – years later – you see a scarf that she’d like.
You see her in a flash, an image incomplete. You
glimpse her through a storefront window where
she’s behind you, reflected in the glass.