And you didn’t visit me.
I was patient.
I knew you’d come.
But no. Nothing.
Seven months gone
And so are you.
This past week,
A character in a book I read
Was puzzled over ghosts
And why her mother had not come to her
When she asked a new friend
He simply said, “she was ready to go”
And there you were between the pages.
Leaving me guessing over whether
You were reason I chose that book.
Or no need to guess at all.
It was you or perhaps . . . it was Mom.
Whichever, whoever, thank you.
Rest well, until I need your memory.