I miss you baby. Our most recent family portrait sits on my recessed display case in the foyer. It's a shock to realize that it was taken almost a year ago. Twelve years flew by, it seems, and now this year is zooming too.
Minongo is gone. I heard the ache in your voice when you said you just looked up and someone you expected to be there is just not. Who knows to where? You said. I speak to you across thousands of miles and you are present, imperfectly, but there. I am allowed to imagine you and the daily things you do. And I ache for you as I wait and plan on the moment when I will turn the corner and there you will be. How will that time come for one of us when the other will be the memory to caress and smooth like a beach pebble or special shell. How much is left to us to snatch from now for then.
Minongo is gone. I heard the ache in your voice when you said you just looked up and someone you expected to be there is just not. Who knows to where? You said. I speak to you across thousands of miles and you are present, imperfectly, but there. I am allowed to imagine you and the daily things you do. And I ache for you as I wait and plan on the moment when I will turn the corner and there you will be. How will that time come for one of us when the other will be the memory to caress and smooth like a beach pebble or special shell. How much is left to us to snatch from now for then.
