The ticking of the many clocks, some now on our mantle.
The trips to the park that I’m reminded of each time we drive through town.
The time you taught me the Chopsticks duet; I play it by myself now.
The calls at nine o’clock in the morning every Saturday of my life; I still imagine I hear the phone ring.
The smell of your house, now sold and refurbished.
The visits to Ellen the hairdresser on Thursdays, gone forever.
The old movies we watched, where I learned to love Cary Grant.
The Royals games on television that we watched faithfully, I now watch alone.
The pink nightgown and hairnet you wore to bed every night; I still think about them.
The bashful girl and ruby rock that decorated your garden, now in ours.
The crafts we would do that now lay forgotten.
The way you would laugh at me when I felt like being a comedian resounds in my head.
The beautiful bedroom set in your house, now decorating our guest room.
The bony hugs and wet kisses when it was time to go, now just memories.
The nights I almost hear you telling me, in that special way, that you love me.
The Sunday morning call that changed my life forever.
The nearly unbearable pain and sadness that came with your death and are still with me.
The pink granite headstone with the unfeeling letters spelling your name, Ruby Mae Owen, out, marking the grave that is now my reality.