It's the little things.
A forgotten picture,
Or mail addressed to her.
It's the fleeting, perfectly natural reminders.
A shoe.
An arrangement of jars,
Or the paint tubes left unused.
These are what prick my heart
Like another pin into the pincushion.
At times, it seems,
That teeny stab is trifling, no big deal.
At others, it is the hole which pops the balloon,
Deflating me into tears and disappointment,
The burst echoing---
She's not here.....
She's not here......
I want to be grateful
For these commonplace, little, things,
For each puncture, no matter how insignificant.
I know, oh I know,
That these too
Will blow away with the years
Like chafe on the wind.
And it's the little, stuff,
The tiny, infrequent, everyday, ordinary, items
Which point to her,
Reminders,
That once,
She lived.
Oh, how she lived.
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