when the horizon dips
into darkness unsure about dawn,
I touch the faded photo, your face
still wearing a mere wisp of pink
blurred now into brushed-aside memories.

death is a trickster. it comes and goes
as morning turns to night turns to day
and we call it life until it isn’t.

the old camera watched my childhood
leapfrog. I grew up too soon, learned
about dying before living

and your too-short journey left us lost
looking behind doors, behind trees,
playing hide-and-seek that never ended
even after night fell.

so I tucked away small treasures—
your blue stone earrings, a sliver
of granite scraped from your tombstone—
still, I wait until my heart gets finished
missing you.

For my mother

Marsha is a retired educator who lives and writes in Richmond, VA. Her poems and essays have appeared in Streetlight Magazine, Poets Reading The News, The Literary Nest, NewVerseNews, The Huffington Post, and thewildword. She is a co-editor of the recently released poetry anthology, Lingering in the Margins.