Dear —,

A love poem.

Photo by Lara John on Unsplash

Dear —,

Forgive me for not remembering your name.

I keep it burned beneath my eyelids.

When I close my eyes I see you—

at the tip of my tongue, like a fish bone.

My grandson is writing this for me.

Our first kiss by the sea.

Your fingers, the earrings —each night—

so I could leave them on the nightstand.

Other things—

[G: I’m not writing that]

The boy clears his throat.

He thinks I was born old.

That you and I were never people.

Only—this.

Yesterday I saw you in the hallway—

fluorescent hum, ammonia.

You didn’t answer when I called.

Blue dress from our New Year’s Eve,

the one on January 2nd.

[G: You were mistaken.]

[PA: VISITING HOURS END AT EIGHT]

As if I could mistake you—

your wedding ring still in the blue matchbox,

a small moon, top-left drawer.

The boy says you died

[G: four years ago]

I know he’s lying—wrong,

because yesterday you were here,

arm-in-arm—

last night you touched my foot

and tickled me. As always.

Please, come home.

If you come this afternoon, we’ll have dinner.

Fish. You always liked it better.

The boy says he’ll bring you this letter.

When you read it, please come home.

Bring the earrings; I’ll leave the drawer open.

I have your name—

at the tip of my tongue

[PA: VISITING HOURS END AT EIGHT]

---

Sometime ago I wrote this poem. A little later it became this story — I wouldn’t say that the story was darker. It was maybe only more macabre. This poem is darker. It made me cry, not because the illness (who hasn’t had something like this near their life?) — because I put in there things that only my loved one and I know. And the pain came around me like a wet blanket. I know this explanation breaks the wall. Breaks the pact that I normally sign with you (outside the Low Place, at least). But, just for once, allow me to do it.