small bits and pieces behind.
Pretzel salt in the bottom of the bowl,
fingerprints on iPad screen,
the smell of rain in your hair.
There is an event -
a person, place or thing -
and also that which lingers.
Today, the ink slid across
the melamime of the white board easily.
Bold blue, black, and red
(when I really had to make a point.)
Then, as soon as the kids were gone,
I dry-erased it down to nothing,
I worry about this crop of students.
Will they think that life is that way?
Present and then gone?
Completely wiped away
without the elipsis of living that loiters?
Even now, today, more than
twelve hundred days since she left,
a small part of my large heart is hinged to her.
I am having a hard time
picking up the eraser, getting rid of that love.
But maybe that is not the tool I need.
Maybe healing is not about releasing it all,
but picking up a new marker
-red, yes, red -- to start again.
Write the story I may not read
or understand until much later.
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