The Woman Remembers
I remember, as a child, longing for summer and sunshine
during the coldest months of the year. I sometimes doubted that winter would ever end.
I remember the heat of the sun. My skin blistered.
I remember kissing Don in the back seat, and our guilty touches.
I remember the electric feel on my skin when my husband’s hand touched mine.
I remember the day Bobby drowned.
I remember the sorrow of not loving enough, opening my heart to possibilities.
The Husband Remembers
I remember, the first time I saw you,
you wore a yellow dress
and a large hat to shield your eyes from the sun, but not from me.
Your hair the color of the sunset. Eyes deepest green.
God you were beautiful.
Did you notice me, too?
I remember your laugh.
How your eyes wrinkled up until tears burst forth.
I remember just the moment I chose you to make me a father and grandfather.
I remember when you pushed our son into the world, and our family began.
I remember how you’d read a book and then give a running commentary to me.
I remember your love of animals and how that touched my heart.
I remember sitting in the doctor’s office—numb, confused and scared
as he said my friend and love of 50 years will forget who I am.
Who we have been.
I remember worrying about who was going to make the dentist appointments
and wash my clothes and buy the groceries.