That ragged blue couch
Is held together by nothing
more than habit.
You walk towards me,
a warm drink in hand.
The steam floats up, up, up,
twirling and dancing
like the ballerina in my old music box.
The window hangs open,
a summer breeze blows in.
The air is soft and blue,
cooling with each darkening hour.
Do you remember it so?
No?
It was the last summer before the funeral
and speeches, each word with less meaning
than the next.
It was the last summer of sun
and silence so sweet.
Of iced tea and long walks through the streets.
The last summer of fires and marshmallows,
and of Patsy Cline, oh so fine.
It was the last summer
on that old, blue couch,
a summer wind blowing,
with you there.
This is a revision of a former poem of mine about my father's death.