I yearn for the days
of me sighing at the spider
way up on the ceiling,
and you commending his skill.

“Look how high he got!” you’d say,
big old grin on your face, soft hair in my hands,
with kind eyes locked on the spiders’ hair
that dangled boldly from the ceiling.  

We’d play a game.
Armed with cup and blank paper,
evenly matched—
in the race to catch the beast.

I’d watch you win each race.
The satisfying sound of the cup slapping drywall,
it still rings in my ears.
How tenderly you’d speak goodbyes on our porch.

Where the hell is my goodbye.