She Wrote Again
She wrote again. I found her
letters, looking for the storm
of him. The wind knocked
red hair, the black boots left
outside the door. I read that
he left on a Sunday, walked
away without his trademark
whistle trailing Oh Shenandoah
behind him.
The dim days followed. She
asked everyone, where he was,
his blue eyes a DNA call away
from her. There was no
response.
She had no speech left and
the nurses were glad to be
rid of the man in the picture
on her broken table, broken
between the war years and
liberation.
She glanced backwards in
her dementia. The rough
hewn Sundays, the lost
afternoons. Her disappearances
not the less tiresome, were
gone.
She wrote letters over the same
paper, shop worn stationery,
over and over.
When she stopped it was on a
sunny afternoon. No one knew
she left for the day before his
kiss became goodbye, with a
smile of relief.
Caroline Shank
1.11.2023