Remnants.
There are pieces of her,
here, there
remnants that linger,
that do not let me forget.
Her hairband on the dresser:
I now wear it around my wrist.
Her washcloth hanging
from the towel rack.
Her box of tissues
beside the pillow where she slept,
poorly (my fault),
always facing away from me.
Leftovers in the fridge:
today they are eaten, gone.
Ash dusting the hearth
after indoor picnics and bad movies.
A hairdryer sitting at the foot of my bed.
An empty ziplock bag at my closet door.
The aroma of the candle she left,
everywhere,
caressing me as I sleep.
Pieces of her —
they linger, stay
because I do not let them go.
I was too quick to let her go.
Christmas Eve.
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
not even a mouse.
Little Mouse, as you know,
had gone far away,
to spend time with her family
on this Christmas day.
At home, Dinosaur stared
out the window with love,
and watched as the snow
fell from the sky up above.
He thought of Little Mouse,
surrounded by holiday cheer,
and was happy for her
even though he wished she was near.
Warm and cozy in PJs,
he missed his best friend,
but he knew he’d see her soon,
before next week’s end.
As he crawled into bed,
he exclaimed from afar:
“Merry Christmas, Little Mouse,
I love you, and RAWR!”
Ken.
“Love you,” she concedes,
But he hears her silent sigh;
Always second best.
