Pamela

Pamela

How much she means to me I can not say.
Words heard or seen along the way
like the ebb and flow of a mighty sea
flow images faintly seen, softly heard,
whispered, “Come grow old with me.”

Now, passing quietly by her chair,
a scented air, a perfumed memory
when last my cheek touched her hair.

Who else can share the years that fell,
one by one, along the way to toll the bell?

She and I know full well the road ahead -
one left, the other does not speak or hear.
Will times remembered bring a tear
for words unspoken with time to spare,
or will it be of joyful things,
of the two, among all else, did share?

And if the one left should be me
with her not there to hear or see
an empty house all so quiet,
the loneliness so hard to fight,
the attempts to take my mind away
as long suffered nights turn to day.

Nothing left but thoughts that ache
and a heavy heart that’s sure to break
that sends me aimless room to room,
a darkened house becomes my tomb.
Something was missing I could tell,
looking, looking as under a spell.
Then it would eventually come to me
it was her that I wanted to see.

John Mullinax June, 2006