Here is the dent where her head so often rests;
here the stain where her teacup warms my arm;
her dead-weight as she sleeps in lowered light,
startles at adverts, misses half the show,
snores through familiar Star Trek episodes
still dents my cushioned memory.
She bought these lacy arm cuffs for me
when I was new and shy about my role.
I miss the way she sighs as we relax
together in the still and semi-dark,
sharing the intimacy of favourite chair
in the touch-lamp’s dim glow.
She chose me specially from all the rest, I know.
I wonder where she’s gone or for how long?
It’s cold here in the dark.
She didn’t think to say...
And then today
her perfume and her sigh,
the weight of her once more as we recline.
She rubs her hands along my sturdy arms and says,
God! It’s so good to be home.
And all’s forgiven.
