Friday, January 31, 2025, 16*. Light snow.
We met through a personal newspaper ad. By mail photos were exchanged. Tied to land lines, we listened, we spoke. When you died, I discovered my ad in your wallet. I don’t remember if I put it back for someone else to find the beginning of our story.
We walked until you said, “Let’s go back. Moccasins are not meant for rocky beaches.” From the beginning you were detached – no not that...formal as if you had to do everything just right. I have that picture --a composed figure; a facade nothing like the man who restored my balance.
Your driver’s license is there every time I open my desk drawer reminding me of the day I drove you to the DMV after a chemo treatment. Someone asked you to look up to open your eyes wider. No one asked you to smile.
"Be devoted to one another in love.
Honor one another above yourselves."
Romans 12:10
Art: LJ Austin
The roots of memory grow deep, deep as the love that planted them.
