I hold your hand
across the restaurant table,
feel the familiar, smooth skin
along your wrist, your arm.
I look at your lips,
inviting as they were almost 50 years ago,
and look into your face,
see a time
when you are without me.

When your father died,
I could not abate
your pain, palpable shock,
now must not say what I've seen.

I let go of your hand
and these thoughts,
turn my gaze
to the lemon tart
just placed before me.