I open the book
it's a small red
leather-bound note-pad,
chosen,
chosen to write in.
I run my fingers over written words tracing each letter
following the lines the pen inscribed
the pages she once turned
I caress the paper her hand once rested on
the lines the pen that she once held created
the words that she once chose
as if...
as if I'm trying to revive the very hand that wrote it
that she be here with me
as if to once more hold the woman who's hand it was that wrote the words...
but no...
I can only touch the page that she once touched
I can only read the words which she once wrote
absorb the message
perhaps create a connection with her briefly once more
through her words
I remember the joy of having her near and holding her close
and want just once more
to be able to hold her
and call her
...Mum
