That night the yard was quiet,

quiet in a different way,

as if the whole world was slowing down, encouraging, listening, tossing out a secret and waiting for expectant fingers to unite it.

The moon lit up the yard,

illuminating encouragement from universal truth and exploring into darker, mental silence broken by shattered glass shards. 

There were echoes of days and long evenings past,

conversations that linger from thoughts and situations committed to memory, now I take on the role of the bringer.

Earlier that day the kids ran around the yard and we told stories about the others we once knew and the words still hung over the couch in the living room.

If the couch was blue it would look just like his,

the words we spoke should be hung on signs and then placed around the.house like portraits so that they would never disappear the way the warming sun on the grass sends the dew back to the sky. 

Some would be painted in the same shade of blue as his old couch, the one that held the memories we now told as stories punctuated by laughter and joy,

sometimes taken out and then put away, 

tucked into a safe spot like a comforting mental pouch. 

(still.come the memories, still their presence and they become the remedy.)

Then comes the sunrise, maybe into a foggy morning, a for that sits just above the grass waiting to be burned off by the sun and returned to the sky to become new clouds that will drift in the huge sky so that all of us leave behind all senses of mourning. 

Then,

every time it rains and the water soaks the earth,

those stories will echo the words spoken and then somewhere in the blue sky those echoes will surround this house and we will never forget the sunrise and it’s infinite worth.

T.S. Deary – P.A.F.M.