When the Cranes Fly South

by Lisa Ridzén

No one has ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory.

Whenever my mind starts to wander at night, it’s thoughts of you that calm me down.

I realize you were right. I want to tell him that it was stupid of me to shout and scream, that I should have listened better. That I know that now.

Then I meet your eyes and feel sad, because there is none of you left in there.

Still, I like to believe there must be something left. Memories that rise to the surface in your dreams. Images flickering by from time to time, as you’re looking out the window. Then again, maybe I only think that because the alternative is too painful.

In all honesty, I thought you were a little loopy for wanting to pick flowers so late, but the look in your eye could have convinced me to do anything.

I feel a rush of anger at my body for failing me.