The Forgotten Life of Velma Evans

From room to room,

she wanders and examines,

each room set with half drawn shades.

So many things leave no impression,

but there are pictures here and there,

that briefly incite a quicker heartbeat

and some pattering of the tiny feet of remembrances.

A vague memory,

almost a seed taking root,

If she could have recalled:

He was always a plane taking off

against the wind,

the smell of Aqua Velva in his cheek.

But, these, only mere images,

fleet and fading.

And if it hurts to remember

once being happy,

then she feels no pain.