On Grieving

Not seeing His brown Chevy pull into the driveway was hard.
Not hearing the slam of the tailgate hurts the same.
When He died, we sold the brown truck.
Every now and again, I see that truck
Like an old friend you’ve lost contact with over the years.
It’s comforting and sad knowing His Chevy is with someone else;
Knowing He will never again open the door, turn the key, and drive away.
Like a stage performer after His final scene,
He bowed and the curtains fell.
All I am left with are fading memories and the worn out door handles that have been turned more times than I can count.

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