Looking through my husband's things

I found a battered old harmonica

mournful and Made in America by Wm. Kratt Co.

Placed in the pile of things to keep,

to keep, my mouth somehow playing Taps,

long ago flute lessons flitting by

like ghosts of my past before him.

Before him seems a wasteland, faces

I'd rather forget. The only constant

these days is change.

The smallest things

like a book club at night

wearing perfume he hated or

too many necklaces, coming home

after dark, a green tissue box from

the nursing home, purple crayon writing

"I am here. Where are you?",

the crayon broken in half.

Brevity Quest 2016 87

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.