I remember the sticky sweet smell of blueberry pie
filling grandma’s kitchen when we told her, and the hushed
smile when she saw the ring.
She pulled me close and whispered her approval:
You caught yourself a good one, girl. I’m glad. You deserved it.
I remember the hardwood floors, and the way we danced
in the living room before the children came–and still do
as they’re sleeping.
I remember the fish in the bathroom wall. The swirling blue
we painted below it. Our faces aglow
waiting to see the awe and wonder
of our children in their own aquarium.
I remember the way you first held my hand:
slow and gentle,
afraid to be touched but hovering to touch mine.
You warmed to a long sought-after embrace,
mellowed by wrinkles and tears, strengthened
by a life well lived together.
Now your hand is paper thin; a ghost in mine.
I hold the vapor of you, relive
every memory of our shared past, wish
I had you sooner, thank
God that I didn’t miss you–
that you were mine!