She lived alone
with black and whites
faded by half a century.
Stood from a kitchen chair,
leaving six empty –
a complete set.
House-shoes shuffled
on green vinyl floors –
she led me;
and we would see him.
In each – days and decades
relived in sepia-memory.
Unsure how long
her aged mind could hold them,
she gave them to me,
for safekeeping.
He was now,
and for the past twenty-five years,
Two-dimensional –
this was the closest she could get.
She stroked his face –
love sunk into the lines,
urgency pressed with weight.
Simple confession –
I should have sat on his lap more –
with a wish – wishing she’d known it before.
This is all. And it is gone.
Then she touched the face of Jesus,
hanging in a frame by the door.
Displayed the same love and urgency.
As though His may be the next face she sees
and not wanting another regret.
We walked from the room,
I took her arm
to give her support.
I walked from her house,
I took her confession
(She gave it to me)
for my own safekeeping.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trisha Stewart does technical sales writing for a living and is the mother of two boys. She lives in a small Southern Illinois town where they like to camp, fish, and play outside. She writes poetry and fiction in her spare time. You can find her and some of her work online and at her blog.

Photo Source: Aku Aku