I carry in my mind a picture postcard of the day you left,
Sepia-toned, faded, and worn around the edges,
Where my eternally seven-year-old chubby fingers stroke,
A pilgrim to an ancient shrine where,
Saints cry blood and the wicked
Are forgetful–missing and ever present.
Truth, lie, or heretical imagining,
This is my story,
This is my psalm to you–
Dead and gone from the world;
Living and ever leaving from my heart.
Written December 2009