I wore your hat the other day.
My son looked at me funny, so I put it at a jaunty angle
I still slip on your socks sometimes.
They're completely worn in the heels
and never really fit in my shoes,
but they were yours.
tacky Hawaiin shirts,
and model airplanes;
All remind me of you.
My husband has a three piece suit
just to appease me.
When he puts on the vest,
I imagine yours.
Looking through old photographs,
I time travel to Christmas in Seattle 1984.
We're standing outside the window of Frederick and Nelson,
my hand up against the glass, your hand up against mine,
magically moving the train.
It's the best day ever.
I can't go there now to relive the moment.
Frederick and Nelson is long gone.
So are you.
14 years of my life here.
20 years gone.
Memories wash over me.
So real sometimes
it hurts to open my eyes.
I see my friend's fathers,
about the same age you would be
and I try to image you at 67,
mustache freckled with grey.
I talk with them and I wish I was talking with you.
I wish I was talking with you.
I miss you.
47 minutes ago