Memories

The den smells of you. I can hear your steps and the rustle of the blankets as you sleep. The fire holds your image.

I go around, I enjoy things, but still there is a ghost of you. It hangs there. Staring at me and I stare back and muse on the might haves and what could have beens.

Do you remember when you were pregnant, and I almost got into a fight because some retard started to shake his ass in my face while I was trying to sing a song to you? I remember your face when the first shoving started. It was startled yet pleased. I remember your words before we went to sleep. 'I kind of wished you'd kicked his ass.'

The memories pale to the real thing. But they still are sweet at times. Thank you.