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