I want to write where you are and how you feel, yet I don’t really know. So I make up a story. I observe. I love. Hold my hand so I can read the curve of your palm.
Abbe's Notes
Incomplete
Deep breath. Taking in the smells of wild gardens. Decisions about life. Whiffs of worn dirt. Plow. Poem not completed.
~Abbe
64
June 15, 2015
Your birthday weekend. Green jungles, lush love.
When I’m 64, will you still love me… The question ponders physical change, the process of aging. The question ponders hope, the assurance of love’s endurance. The question ponders the future mixed in with memories of the one we have chosen. 64 arrived. There is no question.
~Abbe
Bugle Boy
June 17, 2015
Que sera sera. I’ve got the whole world in my hands. I’ve got you Babe.
I hear the bugler play, “You’ve got to get up in the morning”. Old songs, new meanings.
My father would tell me Navy stories. His life seemed so significant. His impressions became mine. Funny that I should miss him today. My mom is always present, yet my father slips into my thoughts unaware that his humor, simple, sincere ways, bring me smiles at just the right moment. Here is to the Bugle Boy. You have to get up in the morning. And I do, always before dawn.
