She is starting to fade,
her face is unclear.
I can picture the rest of the scene,
the chairs, the table, sun, landscape,
cups and saucers and biscotti,
but her face has become hazy.
Her glassy, dreamy eyes are distorted
and I can’t remember if she’d push
her hair behind her ears when nervous
or not at all.
But I can hear her laughter,
her full, rich, cutting, echoing,
joyful, beautiful laughter.
May that never leave me.