I miss the everyday.
The side-by-side crossword puzzles;
supper at six; walking the dog.
I miss your touch; your comfort;
your gentle coaching.
Being home in you.
I miss the curve of your back in bed,
my leg over yours, hand on your breast.
Easing to sleep, with the rising and falling beat of your heart.
Playing soccer on the Withrow pitch;
Dancing slow at the Palais;
Barbeques and dinner parties;
Kayaking through water lilies.
Our ‘dates;’ with baths of lemon grass and ginger;
A fragrant haze of old jazz, beeswax candles and massage oil.
Watching you let go; your knowing hands on my body.
Falling into you.
Marrying you on a sunny summer day;
A potluck of family;
Kids playing badminton in the yard.
Hanging your shows with you;
Bold paintings of heroes and friends, laughing dogs and autumn leaves.
Images of cerulean blue; brush strokes exposing your sensual, whimsical soul.
But now, an unfinished canvas on your easel.
My head on your chest.
Until the rising and falling beat of your heart;
Hanging the final show without you.
I try to reframe:
How lucky we found each other;
How right that we fell so fast;
How blessed you survived the first and second cancer;
(But not the third, unknown, silent one).
And that you are somewhere...
Without pain. Listening when I talk to you.
And will be there for the inevitable;
When I am again by your side.
Your palettes are now still lifes on the wall.
There will be no new colours.
But in your paintings and my memories,
There is much life, still.
In memory of Karin Lapins
by Janice Martin