We are here…and you are not. I watch all the rose and caramel dappled skies drifting lovely above the road winding to the city…and feel the glory of late August breezes and the chill of early autumn winds.
I’m looking for something else; something solid like the grasp of your hand and the black, bristled shoe brush and the whisked sound of you polishing my Sunday shoes; swish swish…back and forth…
I want my Mary Janes back. I want that time back. I’ll take September’s glory instead, only because I must.
