What good am I without my memory?
She’s lived with me all my life until now.
I’ve taken for granted graceful symmetry
of her dance. Her long walks and runs. How
she’d bow to power of gentle words and touch,
respect their chronology, their faces
and names. I rarely told her how much
she meant to me. So now only traces
of her remain in our home. Flickering
lamps message her fleeing. Chill wind sweeps through
the open door, reveals loss in thick ring
of fog outside. I can’t recall just who’s
out there. Or where that vanishing path goes.
Shall I go find her? Some voice whispers, “No…”
Roger Armbrust
January 5, 2017
