A metal teapot sits on the railing of the old farmhouse. She used to put wildflowers in it, but now it sits empty, in mirky water, another reminder of her. The clothesline where she'd hang the laundry every day and hum her favorite song is quiet and empty now, still another reminder. I close my eyes and see her rocking in her chair next to me, but now hers sits quietly until a breeze tips it ever so slightly, and for that brief moment, she's here with me with yet another reminder. One less plate at the table, one less kiss goodnight, and hundreds of just-because hugs are all I have to remember now, with endless reminders of her and me and the life we built from love.
Mike 2024
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