Going

I wonder how many times
I can let people in 
through the screen door
before it falls off its hinges.

How many times I can 
light the lantern we keep on the
table for our storytelling nights.
Sitting in its spindly glow,
throwing our shadows
as we weave silken threads
into tall tales.

You would come up
the sagging wooden steps
in the cricket-time,
the first glow of fireflies
in the tall grass.
The porch creaking in welcome
of your familiar weight,
as the screen door
flies open
like an awaiting, laughing mouth.

We danced across the worn floorboards
of the hot kitchen,
little red radio playing up a ditty
for our restless summer feet.

I wonder how many times 
I can dance alone 
while I wash the dishes,
before I feel your phantom hands
on my waist,
hear your whispers
and snatches of stories
against my ear.

Before there lingers
forever the soft scent
you carried,
deep in the linens
on my bed. 

The stories died down
for a while,
the screen door's hinges rusted,
and a minty whisp
of your voice fluttered
by my ear.