CLASPED

Scarves numbered by baker's dozen
veil the clothing
stuffed in suitcase
cornered at hallway end.
We mention not its presence,
nor how it taunts us with the security
that it will travel,
as I can not.

Folding pink scrap pieces of
scribbled thoughts,
she tucks them
in the side pocket of my purse.
"Read these after I've gone."
Routine, after each visit,
I disturb not the
perfect paper creases.

She will cry,
softly pleading with me
to place my feet upon sands
I read of often. Carrion to instead
stay behind, cold.

First childhood memory: ten fingers
of our clasp, swinging in unison,
orange flowered linoleum beneath
tiny, chubby toes.
Charcoal memorialized the moment,
years later gifted to her
across tile topped table.
We sipped creamed tea and laughed
at the traumatic events we'd survived,
together. It hangs
upon a foreign wall,
carried in case upon oceanic waters,
beside her.

Cancer made impossible what
the heart pleads for.
Dawn will wake me, cold.
Comrade departure will
travel me back into comfort
between stanzas, alone.

Ten fingers clasped again,
I make journey promises
and she smiles.
Point of sight lowers to knees,
following the path of one tear,
the only.

I pray in inward hollows
for miracle of word kept;
to leave,
just once,
with her.