You’re lost; who you are?
All I have are memories
of laughter,
song and stories shared
while baking cookies with Mom.
Playing dress up, games,
prayer, all the things we found
comforting
from the palms of our
hands to the souls of our feet.
You live in a time
of hopscotch, twister; your smile
never lost
nor your fuchsia blouse
or perfected manicure.
Your house shuttered and
framed with palms, boxwoods,
privets,
overgrown;
your tired soul worn
from blood cleansing thrice
weekly.
Where did you go? Laos?
Street people perform each night
on the steps
of your home bringing
crowds to place coins in tin pans.
You chose the northern
star to take up safe haven;
start anew
with strangers. Where have
you gone? Come back, we miss
you.