A text for later

I hear a silence in your voice. The mutterings of eloquence. Take my hand as we walk the path towards the garden shed. She always arranged those tall flowers with the white of the cotton table cloth. The delicate red and the clean white. The table was always set for four and now sits idle in a state of disarray. The soup spoon slightly a squint to the place mat where her name once lay. I can still smell her perfume in the air as if she had just brushed by, perhaps on the way to fetch the baking we loved to eat warm.

A crisp glass of apple juice sits half drank on the table. There is not a need for children at a time like this. The children know this too. The feeling of her hand warm as it holds tight to yours. She was never with out a tissue at a time like this. They do that you know, they keep a special supply.