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Eight Years
by
Sherry Harowitz |
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No anniversary marks this day.
Why I noticed, I cannot say.
I simply noted, without tears
that it had been about eight years.
Eight years since you lay still,
eight years since we read the will.
But it's not on that I want to dwell.
Better to cherish the life lived well.
Here's a mental snapshot of the snowball
you snuck inside and threw in the hall.
Mom none to happy with the melted spill,
but the misbehavior added to the thrill.
And at the beach, when you swam under,
surprised mom, and left her hair asunder.
Dancing to your polka tunes when I was six,
wondering what was in your magic waffle mix.
The furniture you made in the shop
was either tiny or way over the top.
That rare grownup that remains half child,
I loved that you stayed just a little bit wild.
As the doctor gave the final grim news,
You tossed off a joke, no self-pity blues.
You were serious as the '50's required,
But you were never dull or mired.
So eight years on, I'm still sad but I smile
remembering your humor, heart, and brash style.
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--Submitted by Tyro on 2014-04-24.
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Hosea Owen:
That is sad.
Posted 05/28/2014 02:35 AM
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Hosea Owen:
That is sad.
Posted 05/28/2014 02:29 AM
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