(My apologies to Send me the pillow.)
Missing Her
I still have the pillow
that she dreamed on.
I still have her apron that she wore.
Her pillow’s on the bedhead where I slumber.
Her apron’s folded neatly, in her favourite dresser drawer.
The pictures hanging on the walls are all of her selection,
Of the family whom she cared so much about.
The trinkets on the shelfs, are her collection.
Of her life with me, both start and finish, and throughout.
I still miss her bright broad smile in the morning.
I still miss, deeply, the touching fondly of her hand.
I miss her friendly chatter, at the table.
Rain or shine she thought each new day,
was something really grand.
I miss seeing her as she wandered through the garden.
Reaching out to touch the flowers that she loved.
I miss hearing her voice which was so calm and gentle.
While chatting softly to a
friendly, nesting, mother, mourning dove.
I miss the fresh cut flowers centred on our table.
In the country kitchen that she always proudly kept.
I miss the shoes she always lined up, oh so neatly,
In the corner on the floor,
which she often swept, and swept, and swept.
I miss her softly singing as she toiled,
While she scrubbed the pots and pans, in the kitchen sink
I miss her friendly chatter, with a neighbour,
Or her comments to a stranger,
who was simply passing, on the street.
I saw her often as she stood before the pictures,
Of our two boys we lost by accidents, which both were freak.
Though it happened long ago, she’d turn, smiling sweetly,
As a tissue dabbed her rosy, double dimpled,
salty tear streaked cheek.
It’s been close to sixty years since I first met her.
Fifty two of those, were locked in wed-lock bliss.
So I guess its only part of human nature, Now that she’s gone, its her, and only her, That I miss, and miss, and miss.
So it’s Christmas now, in the year two-0-0 and seven.
And a third empty chair will be sitting, in her place.
Likewise, a third candle will be burning on our table.
Just to remind us all who gather of her ever smiling face.
I hope that there’s a pillow, up in heaven,
On which she can dream of us down here below.
And I’m sure around her waist there’ll be an apron.
But in case by chance there isn’t,
I’ll take the one I have here, with me, when I go.
Take care, ’cause we care.
