Though she left us fourteen years ago today,
she comes to me still.
She comes to me in the morning, with the rising sun, as it warms the stones beneath me.
She comes to me at twilight, beside the stove, as I stir the broth and break the noddles.
She comes to me in my desperation, quieting me with her presence.
She comes to me, in her failures, soothing my own.
She comes to me when I work too hard. When I push too much. When I need to pause.
She silently reminds me.
She’s got a way about her.
I don’t know what it is.
But I know that I don’t live without her.
She’s got a light around her, and everywhere she goes a million dreams of love surround her.