I cannot hold your hand this year, I cannot share that memory. I cannot pour a drink for you or walk the beach where we both walked. I cannot laugh as we both laughed or dance a night time’s life away, sure we have eternity
I cannot hold your arm this year, and steady you across the road: two old people braving time and laughing at futility. I cannot travel back with you, glass in hand, to memories when young at heart, we hid our insecurities.
I cannot see you in the room, smiling as you always did, at some transgression in our midst, or drive too fast down country lanes or swim where reckless people did: ignoring safety was our ” thing.”
We always got away with it: made it to the other side; but you are gone and I am here, stripped of context by my age, a mystery in this sheltered home, now without a family. I cannot hold your hand this year.