You ask me why I sit and stare. Don’t you know I’m not really here? I left a long time ago. Can’t you see? I left the day she left me. I’m not really here. I’m living in those moments we had together. Nothing will ever be the same.
I loved holding your soft hand. No one will ever understand. I’m not really here. I loved the sound of your gentle voice and to hear you whisper that you loved me. I touch my tongue to your finger dipped in chocolate brownie mix. It tastes sweet just like you. I feel your breath on my shoulders as we cuddle close in bed.
I see the joy in your eyes and the smile that breaks out across your face when your first grandchild comes running to you and throws out her arms for you to pick her up. I see your radiant smile and your eyes beaming with the light coming from deep inside your soul. I smell the roses in your garden. They remind me of you. I see you kneeling on the grass nearby as you cast a glance my way. You smile and nod and continue on.
You pour me a cup of hot coffee and hand me a newspaper in the morning. I somehow know everything is going to be alright. Before I go off to work each day we pray. We hug each other and kiss each other on the cheek, and then wave goodbye.
I’m not here. Can’t you see? You asked me to be your husband fifty years ago. And now you’ve gone on ahead. I’m not here. Can’t you see. I left five years ago, the day you died. I’ve tried and tried to understand.
You ask me why I sit and stare. Don’t you know? I’m not really here.