For Richard's Mom

In the quiet, when the boys are asleep, I listen. Listen for the memory of you, listen for the sound of your voice, listen for the memory of your smile, the softness of your fingers, the smell of your hair; listen. Some nights the listening leads to overwhelming grief, some nights to overwhelming love, but most nights I lie between cool sheets and between listening and sleep, I reach out my hand and your spirit reaches out to me and whispers: "Here I am Mom, go to sleep".