The sun is sinking somewhere into a gray river of sky. Today is sadly dark and dismal on your birthday. I have not spoken to you in five years and don't know where to begin.
I remember how much you appreciated nature. The Cherry trees are in bloom in my front window, and the window facing the chair where you once sat in my dining room. Even the Dogwood, the one that is overgrown, in my backyard, looks spectacular as it leafs and flowers.
Our lilacs are beginning to flower as well, but their sweet fragrance won't linger in the air for a few more weeks. I remember how much you loved the fragrance of lilacs and how we would drive in the country and you would pull off to the side of the road and open the window to let them in.
We never had lilacs where we once lived, but we were always surrounded by nature. You used to sit in front of a thin curtain, in the living room, watching the gulls, robins and cardinals drifting from our backyard to the field that stretched out behind the fence which separated us from the endless school yard.
I have not heard your voice, touched your hand or kissed your cheek in five years. You were not here for the birth of my daughter or Kenny and Angelina.
I have missed your guidance, your warmth, and your presence.
Maybe I'll hear your voice again if I read the poetry that you wrote and left for me. Or maybe I will know you are still here if I listen closely when I look at the pottery that you spun and masterfully painted.
I wonder if I decode the hieroglyphics on the red clay, if there will be a message waiting for me. A message that will tell me how to find you again, how to write again and the legacy you want me to share with my children.
I remember how much you appreciated nature. The Cherry trees are in bloom in my front window, and the window facing the chair where you once sat in my dining room. Even the Dogwood, the one that is overgrown, in my backyard, looks spectacular as it leafs and flowers.
Our lilacs are beginning to flower as well, but their sweet fragrance won't linger in the air for a few more weeks. I remember how much you loved the fragrance of lilacs and how we would drive in the country and you would pull off to the side of the road and open the window to let them in.
We never had lilacs where we once lived, but we were always surrounded by nature. You used to sit in front of a thin curtain, in the living room, watching the gulls, robins and cardinals drifting from our backyard to the field that stretched out behind the fence which separated us from the endless school yard.
I have not heard your voice, touched your hand or kissed your cheek in five years. You were not here for the birth of my daughter or Kenny and Angelina.
I have missed your guidance, your warmth, and your presence.
Maybe I'll hear your voice again if I read the poetry that you wrote and left for me. Or maybe I will know you are still here if I listen closely when I look at the pottery that you spun and masterfully painted.
I wonder if I decode the hieroglyphics on the red clay, if there will be a message waiting for me. A message that will tell me how to find you again, how to write again and the legacy you want me to share with my children.
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