Until You’re Not There

I always thought,

naively so,

you’d always be there,

Never occurred to me

so blind,

that someday you’d go.

So familiar,

your presence:

you brew the morning coffee,

at seven, a good-bye kiss,

but lingering behind,

your essence.

Leaving was always

a temporary thing,

off to work, then home,

never doubted your return,

until that one,  piercing,

unexpected ring.

Wrong number, wrong person,

you’ve always come home,

You were just here,

plans for dinner at eight,

you said you’d never leave,

I’d never be alone.

Oh, I forgot,

there was something I had to say

I meant to ask you,

will you pick up some milk?

Your key in the lock, anytime, now:

you’d never go today.

Can I reel back the time?

Can I put the clocks on hold?

Can I tell the phone not to ring?

Hold that one last morning kiss?

We haven’t had our chance, yet,

To grow old.

© Janet Mitchell, July 2012