An Anniversary

Contentious day,
ripe with words,
engorged with said and
unsaid,
succulent with memories
a chair, a lap,
your workshop in the basement.
I would put on your clothes
from the war,
far too big
for either one of us
to acknowledge.
Steal your t-shirts,
white and worn,
they were soft
and sometimes smelled
of Old Spice.

A dementia of distance
pulled you away, all
we talked about
was the weather.

It’s raining today.

Is it sunny there,
does the columbarium marble
warm to the touch?
Someday,
I’ll visit.

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