by Nanette Littlestone

A sigh whispers through the leaves
overhead, high in the towering network
of lacy green. A barely noticed tremble.
The glint of movement catches my
attention, a spark of sunlight on a branch,
a flit of robin's wings, the scritch of
squirrel's feet on the crusty bark of the
ancient oak. Just enough to make me
think of you. It is you, isn't it, that quick
blinding flash that makes me squint and
shield my eyes, there in the pale patch of
sky between the cottony galleons we used
to call the Spanish Armada? I've watched
for you every morning when the kids race
out the door to catch the school bus and I
stand on the porch, waving goodbye.
Kevin is so tall this year, already wearing
size 12s and stooping to kiss my cheek,
and Samantha, when those green eyes flash
at me in disgust and her red curls quiver,
I have to turn away to wipe my eyes. If only
you could see them. If only you could see
me. You told me that we all live on inside
each other, a piece of grass, an apple seed,
the oak in the front yard, even the particles
of air we breathe. I didn’t understand you.
But I remember the laugh lines beside your
ocean eyes and the tiny crook at the right
side of your mouth and I’ve tried to believe.
I’ve tried to believe you’re there, looking
down on us, knowing how much we miss
you. And when I see the leaves move in
the trees or hear the quiet breath of twilight,
then I can pretend I’m in your arms again.