Slow Fade (A year has passed) 

I dreamed all was like it once was and he was not so angry.

I thought that if we sat together long enough we could connect all the dots to create a picture and a link from past to present and this slow fade could be repainted in bright and hold colors, a route to prevent the inevitable. 

But then the night came once again and the clock reminded me that time was slipping by just as he got up to go to bed. 

Then there was the time spent waiting at the airport, when it was time to go home, time fading slowly, just me and my restless spirit.

Watching restless travelers and relaxed pilots who.speak of the angles of take off and landing. 

A girl.in glasses talking on the phone planning an anxious reunion, baby in a carriage watching her mother’s phone. 

Some returning home,

Some leaving home,

Some escaping forever,

Some leaving behind what they can no longer carry.

Cue the fade to black and all the time spent waiting that is never coming back.

Slow fade,

Time’s relentless cutting blade.

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

Slow fade,

So angry and afraid.

I don’t know if I ever really saw him again? I knew it was only a matter of time until the fade would be as black as night and waiting for the return of the sun would be an eternity.

Eventually he will be restored, made whole, truly alive, intact and given back his dignity and then will come the return of peaceful gratitude, remembrance and never ending serenity.

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

Slow fade,

So angry and afraid.

Slow fade,

Time’s rwlentless, cutting blade. 

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

So tense and afraid. 

Now a year has passed and I remember all these days from first to last. 

Now a year has passed and I have mourned for him and all those memories are here to last.

Now a year has passed and there is now nothing but time to pass, set in memory, firmly rooted and built to last.

I wish that I could see you and seek your advice again: all these changes are too much too soon. 

That empty house that has written stories to be told and retold, written into its walls but now there is no one there to hear them.

Soon be this year has passed I wonder if they are still being told?

Even now I listen with all my strength, across all these miles and after all this time. 

T.S. Deary   6/24 – 7/25/2020