A melody, a meringue dancer, collage peppers, elbow macaroni with gruyere, or a glass of Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and the tears gather behind my eyes.
Our garden, your stock of silks, wool’s, bobbins and Vogue Patterns.
All provoke images of your face. Images that are rarely complete yet totally consuming.
The bird feeder, the marauding squirrels, and the wall of photos all command your presence.
Our meals are yours – your taste, your mouth and your style.
Your clothes fill the dresser and closet, and I smell them. I remember your smell.
How I love your smell, and the incredible softness of your skin.
The tears gather just behind my eyes.
And France is you. And music and your voice and your laugh bring tears to my eyes.
But only for me to feel and no one to see.
The tears pool and search for release. They flow back and forth behind my eyes.
And then…and then I smile. I don’t see you, but I feel you, and I smile.
My tears leave the back of my eyes and I smile.