Some days there exists a wanting of lost things,
                    of the home within the house I made
                         with blankets and a crocheted afghan,
                               my ginger cat curled beside me.

On a winter day there exists a wish for an August morning,
                    a never-ending glass of sweet iced tea,
                         deep in a mystery with the heroine I long to be,
                               as raspberries ripen to cricket song.

Or holidays where the whisperings of the stories we repeat,
                    dispute, and laugh over until we sigh.
                         Like echos, like gossip full of old news
                               of those whose youth we shared.

The days, it seems, grow shorter and unexpected hours fill
                     with shadows of people I loved –
                           love still – who left me questions that rise
                                like morning mist, unanswered.

One day, they just left, left before today existed, before my wanting.