The light is fading fast,
my bedroom dull and murky,
the only brightness artificial–
the cold glow of the light from my closet,
coats and boots and other
material heartaches of winter.
I’m losing time to
make a decision;
the doors will close,
and I will have lost the chance
to touch where your fingers smudged the edges of the paper, to
trace the broad colored strokes you left behind,
to feel your echoes still.
But I’m afraid,
the growing darkness creeping quickly into my room as I
fold and refold,
sort and cast off
strange pieces from my past.
As I do my eyes fall on the cookbook you sent me after that summer.
It arrived at my door as the wind picked up and
the leaves curled brown and crunched underfoot, and its familiar pages were
a reminder of warmth when it was most needed.
You were always good that way, but
I’m afraid that
your reminders will
no longer drive away the cold.