The Simple Word Poetry

On this night, dinner at our customary table, set towards the back of the room. Often, year after year, have we come hither; The walls, the lights, the food and the wine do not change, but we do. I see your beauty through the half-empty glass; I remain enamoured with you. It's everlasting appeal will remain the rest of our days. We need not know much else, for we produce this poem together. Our time here is short, I despair at the thought, but delight in its truth.

The burn marks and scars speak to the cancer’s severity. I feel his tired resignation of the inevitable. At 19, I curse this insidious scourge, what temerity it exhibits. To die at home is a comfort, it is life’s unceremonious contradiction. I will miss his presence and oddities, then one last gaze into his dying eyes. The tears and sobs engulf the room, the newly-born spirit rejoices at his reunion.

With youth comes impatience, the quest to be older than our years. Family is taken for granted like good teeth and health. Now, in my mid-40's, it is those who have come and gone, the moments had and memories created that I long for again. I miss the many family members who had a profound impact on my early years. I miss my grandmother's peacefulness, great cooking and warmth. I miss my uncle Frank's quirkiness, goofy phrases and Christmas tree farm. I miss not having the chance to get to know my grandfather better, for I was only 19 when he passed. I miss holiday dinners with extended family, fruit salad and togetherness. I miss The Plant, the huge doberman pincher and the little metal bridge over the river-like drainage basin. I miss endless bike rides, watching model airplanes fly overhead and effortlessly land on the small grass runway back in the woods off the remote dirt road. I miss hearing the paperboy crashing the morning's newspaper against our metal screen do...