I sit facing the window to the West.
I watch the sun drop into the Pacific,
just beyond my ken,
lighting San Francisco as it falls,
its last rays lighting the towering eucalyptus that frame my view.
Suddenly, on a wave of grief,
I return to a balmy summer night
on the shore of Lake Michigan,
brown summer arms
swinging from the top arc of a Ferris Wheel,
sniffing languid air,
floating above the beat of music,
young people dancing at my feet.
Suddenly,
I return to the darkened room
in which I sit.
The memory, gone.
The grief, remaining.
Mary Elyn Bahlert 05/2020
TheWisdomYears.org 