The Healing Corner: April's Story; Part Two


I still drive by your

old, blue and white

house on the Boulevard,

number 247.

Your silver Buick is still

parked in the driveway

and the tulips and snapdragons

still bloom in the garden.

The wooden boards are still

on the Weeping Willow

that once led to our

childhood treehouse.

I still can see the kitchen,

smell the aroma of

your homemade stew,

still see the puzzle lying

unfinished on the dining room table.

Under the stairs, I can still

see the carved names of us,

your grandchildren,

marking our place.

I can see you still sitting

in the orange-red recliner,

knitting a scarf,

or a sweater,

(I can’t really remember).

Upstairs, in your old bedroom

I can still see the

Black-beaded rosaries

on the dresser.

And in the playroom,

I can still see us dealing cards

and building magnet cities.

I slam my brakes when I now see

another family

walking to a different car,

and the boards are torn from the tree

in front of the yellow-painted house

with the now barren garden off to the side.

It is now when I realize that still

only exists in my heart.

editor's note: The Healing Corner is a section of this blog that is open for contributions from readers. You can write about yourself, a loved one (with us or deceased), my mom, a pet, a particular time in your life, etc. The sky's the limit with The Healing Corner. I will gladly accept any form of writing (letter, story, poem, haiku,) and you are more than welcome to include pictures. Your submission can include your name, can remain anonymous, or can be accompanied with a pen name; it's entirely up to you. All I ask is that the submission be from the heart. Thank you.

Send Submissions Here.

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