Two months after
that day
I drove to the farm,
sat in the driveway for hours
inside the car
with my eyes closed.
Memories flashed like an
old-time flipbook -
still images creating the motion
of our eight years together.
A nod, smile, laugh, gesture, inflection,
hug, kiss, touch, gaze - all passing
before me
like the final moments death brings.
And so it had.

When evening came
I approached the white fence,
hopped up and sat like we would
watching the horses graze,
sharing our days,
planning adventures.
Oh, how you would have loved
the stars that night
and the three-quarter moon -
its trail of light slicing the field,
as it once did, reaching your eyes
with a spark that was life
until it wasn't.

This was our stronghold -
an escape into each other.
Sprinting to the barn, we dodged afternoon rains.
Sharing the same outdoor lounger
we traded books, read poetry aloud, and sipped beer.
Huddling on the porch in winter, blanket-wrapped,
we watched the horizon flare with sunset colors.
Strolling the country roads at night,
hand in hand,
we laughed as the dog zigzagged playfully
through rows of corn.

We loved here, fought here, lost here.

I slid from the fence and
turned one final time,
saw the field -
its wheat-gold luminescence born from the moon,
missing your eyes as I did.
Opening the car door,
I backed onto the road and drove away
never to return.

© Laura DeHart Young