I suppose I’ll take better care of my nails from now on.
Your’s were always the perfect length
coated in pastel pinks
neatly curved like the edges of your smile.
Maybe I’ll take up gardening,
just to recall the fragrance of your lily-scented breath.
I’ll press my nose to the petals,
flare my nostrils to the whispering breeze
to capture every last gust
of your gentle exhalations.
Because contrary to the crystalline dew
that settles on my lawn each morning,
You, not dressed in satin blouses
You, not enveloped in my grandfather’s arms
You, not seated at our holiday dinner tables
will never settle in for me.
I wear you on a gold chain around my neck.
You dangle like a cliché above my heart,
though you were anything but cliché.
In the dark hours of night
I send you kisses from a tear-stained pillow
curl my fingers tight around a silver cross
and wait for the tips of your wings
to brush against my forehead.
In daytime, I answer questions:
“Yes, we were beyond close.”
“Yes, she was beyond amazing.”
I become disgusted with myself.
I need to expand my vocabulary
to words that embody you.
I need to stop speaking in the past tense
because you are still here holding my hand.
I’ll take you to the park with me.
I’ll conquer my fear of heights and
you’ll catch me at the edge of the tallest slide.
In July, we’ll go swimming in the pool.
I’ll always be the shortest monkey in the middle.
You’ll sit next to me on the piano bench,
while I plug away at silver bells in December
and the firelight will dance in the window reflection.
Whether I walk through a front door
across a stage down an aisle,
your pearl will drape against my flesh.
We’ll play a game of crazy eights
til I’m eighty-two like you,
and life will deal the cards,
but you’ll always let me win;
that’s just your nature.