Memory shows me snapshots of you in black and white,
in a time when you were young.
Youth and marriage, playing roles and bearing witness to
a change of seasons, with joyful births and times of sorrow.
My tribe is getting smaller.
Riding a bike, with a push and a smile, trying to remember
what was said, just a smell, or a moment of the feel of your
hand in mine crossing the street.
Dreams and death, always watching and awaiting its
appointed time and space to share themselves.
Hoping for tears with no outcome of grief, as my
tribe is getting smaller, and you are missed.