The morning light that makes its way into my living room is, more often than not, pink.
Each day, the ravens circle outside my living room window, speaking in a language I know in my belly.
My belly skin has a scar that runs across its center from the Hysterectomy I had when I was 29.
For the slightest second, my lips caress the skin of his cheek, and our eyes meet unveiled. We are ‘us’ for just a moment in time.
Time ticks by on my bedroom nightstand.
I pull back the sheets and climb into an empty bed.
I meditate in bed in the early morning hours, sometimes falling back into the deepest sleep when I am done.
I take pictures of flowers for meditation.
There is a beautiful flower shop just down the street.
I walk the steep streets of San Francisco, with homes like walled fortresses.
The wall I am facing holds images and words of things I never want to forget.
My late-husband is always in my heart, even though there are days when he doesn’t cross my mind.
My grandchildren will never know him.
I once remembered everything.
My body heaves with a big sigh.
I see what is here.
I am grateful for this whole life.
