she sits in the same chair every weekday
gazing at someone else who is not me.
we are still there,laughing irreverently as
ghosts hovering just below the ceiling.
her hair has gotten brittle and dry from
too many attempts to hide the grey,
this, I understand
I follow her in so many ways.
yet her eyes are pools of wisdom
in this, I can only hope to follow.
Podcast 13O: Seven Myths of Happiness.
1 hour ago