Just A Memory

It’s been a long time since I traced the laugh and worry lines on your face.
The wrinkles around your eyes aged you more that you really were.
There was an unspoken beauty in that.
I try and imagine what it looks like today. I’m sure you still look the same, except your face is
frayed along the seems.

You would trace the life lines in the palms of my hand and read yourself into their short path from my wrist to groove between my middle and index finger.
You’d say my hands held the secret blueprint of what happiness looks like.
If only we knew.

I found an old photo of us in the Matopo Hills.
I tore it into nearly perfect halves. It ripped where I had my hand on your shoulder. It now sits in a shoebox with all the other small things I will ship to an unknown address in Uzbekistan where no one will know what to do with it…
Or maybe find a new lease on life for things I no longer need.

It is the only evidence that remains to remind me you once rested your weary bones on my frame at the end of a wearisome day.
I think of those days as a dress rehearsal run for these days,
Where life surrounds me with the magic of constant new beginnings and the beauty of EVERYTHING.

This morning is a beautiful new day.
I cut a piece of butter.
Watched it slide off the knife and rest on my warm toast.
It seeped into the thirsty toast and settled there
Releasing the most amazing aroma.

It made me think of you.
How you were so solid and so together.
And something shiny scooped you up and
Melted you to be spread on an otherwise
Dry existence with one who wants your flesh and not your soul.                                    

    
Frank Malaba © 2012