This is the kind of day
Shrouded and cloaked in clouds and showers
A day with no exclamation marks
This is the kind of day when he would have called
To share a groaner of a pun
Match calendars for lunch
Or just to see if I was still alive
Which of course he isn’t
Some ghosts linger longer than others
I’ve had my share of losses over a lifetime
Sometimes it isn’t the pain of the loss as much
As it’s empathy with the bereaved
Like the time a classmate’s younger brother
Was struck down in a traffic accident
I will always be haunted by the memory of his mother’s eyes
Noticed obliquely a few months later when I was over at their house
Her eyes shiny as polished chrome but full of grief’s infinity
Some ghosts seem bound to places
Where they passed or where we shared a moment
Or maybe a song will shuffle its way into a tendril
Of sweet remembrance
A recollection of spectral intensity
This is the kind of day
When spirits walk beside me
Shrouded and cloaked
In clouds and showers
David Trudel © 2013
You captured feeling a presence perfectly. I’m going to carry your words with me all day.
Thanks, I’m glad you liked it.
Haunting–and the pun is not really intended. This is really, really good.
Thanks Susan, a good pun is its own reword!
Evocative words graced with profundity; beautiful! Thanks for sharing. Regards, Paul
Thanks so much for the kind words Paul.