Some kind of comfort.

This morning.
I never know what to say — every word seems too light and too heavy.
Too much and not enough.

Nothing is right.

I write for the memory.
(Who is this addressed to? I can only write for those who remain.
You no longer walk this winding path with us– mmm…all words seem harsh.)

Memories.
Those who remain and I will sit silently.

I will wonder what they are thinking.
But me, I will think of cookies and chocolates.
Climbing a tree in the fall.
Tobogganing down a hill in snow.

I will think of Sunday mornings. Of the full armor of God.
Of a slippery slope.

Of health care advice and charting notes.

Of cards of lavender and rabbits.

Of the times I didn’t say hello (or did you leave early, too? What do you say to, ‘How are you?’).

 

Our time is not guaranteed. Every meeting may be our last.
Your memory will continue to teach me.

Yes, I think that was what I was going to say…

 

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