Memory II
by P.H. Wise

He sat alone in the kitchen,
watching as the last traces of familiar warmth
faded into nothing.
His eyes were hollow, and his face
a mask of sorrow.

He glanced down at the wrinkled hand
that had once held hers -
at the wrinkled arms that had once held her
as they danced together.

Like a lost child, blinking owlishly
in the darkness of the kitchen,
he traced his fingers over cold pots and pans,
and over the place where, at his side,
she had once sat.

With trembling lips, he whispered her name.
Placing his head in his hands,
and trembling with his sorrow,
he wept.

Home...
How do you find it when you've never been there?
Home...
How do you reach it when you can't remember the way?
Though memory fades like the morning mist,
and she is passed away...
Though the world has turned to gall...
Though light has failed
and love, failed
and hope, failed...
Keep holding on...
Holding on...
Home is not far off.