I can hear her footsteps
on the stairs, in the kitchen,
in the garden, in her bureau;
I can listen to her,
a hummingbird, strict
with the kids, their father,
and the pets;
I can smell her,
a melange of food,
continental and local, her
signature trace, and
that of Christian Dior,
Angel of Thierry Mugler,
Hugo Boss;
If I try hard enough, I could
even figure her sitting beside
me, talking to me, overlooking
my insanity and the world of
disparity;
my eyes could ignore
the celebration of
family pictures
hanging on the walls.
No comments:
Post a Comment