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PC was still working;
she wished he would retire.
he'd text her an aphorism—
yes, short and pithy— but funny,
and she'd laugh because
it was as though, once again,
they were reading the same book.
He liked to work with his hands;
lately there was only time to fix
those things that seemed to fall apart.
She was happiest when she wrote...
and painted...but those words
and those colors were not
broken or falling apart.
When she took a short walk,
that followed a meandering dirt path
and led her passed cactus-clad terraces,
she saw the most brilliant falling star—
she always made the same wish:
She loved his baritone voice
and his crooked little smile.
She loved that his hair was grizzled,
that he still called her, and that
they talked until the wee morning hours.
She'd smile. Mostly she loved it when
the cell phone in his pocket
would dial her number after three
days of not talking to him;
she knew it was calling the
last number dialed— she loved that it was hers.
She loved how he said her name
because there was always, always
something substantial in it.
She loved how he made her feel:
important, beautiful, wanted, desired... loved,
even though she'd have to remind him,
Did you read that poem I submitted?—
well, they were not broken or
falling apart requiring his handwork.
She thought she must drive him nuts,
at least once in a while;
she always wanted his handwork.