I expected you to be in at least one.
Nearly five years you’ve been gone and never once did you consider slipping in, saying hello, smiling?
Ok, maybe smiling is asking too much.
You weren’t much of a smiler, but damn, you could cook.
I still remember your face, though the last time I saw it was in death.
I really thought you might visit, but being as I am, perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t.
Your birthday is coming up.
I should come sit by your grave; but I won’t.
It wouldn’t matter to you either way.
It never did.
You told me once that nobody really cared about my thoughts, dreams, words and feelings.
I didn’t believe you then.
Now, I wonder.
A Photographer's Heart 