It carries on the last bit of her laughter,
That last breath hanging in the air,
Just for a moment.
When every piece of her
Comes forth in smile and laugh,
Like some restrained ecstasy
Seeming ready to burst.
Then floating off,
She moves with purpose now,
But with a strange habit of
Great drifting circles and musings,
Like a big river, meandering, eddying, floating,
And, in time, maybe, finding itself again
Where the wandering currents combine,
And move onward to far off places.
She tells the story ever so carefully,
A story told again and again,
A story of places, a story of movement
All the while,
Her arms carry it along,
Her hands bring life to those places,
Her voice fills me.
Then, the long pause in her eyes.
Long after the last piece of laughter
Had vanished into a long wait
A fear comes over me,
If only I could sit still then, instead I’m frozen
This is my one chance, before I miss it all.
Hers is a story of the way things are right now.
Not what will be, as I want to think.
Nor just the way I remember it.
In that kind of way that memories can become.
Someday, I say, I will get the joy,
The essence, see that moment
when her laugh never stops.
Enter her stillness where we trace those circles,
Recounting the stories again, all full of life
And look out from her eyes
Onto the way things really are.