Washing away Raspberries

I miss her,

Even as I hold her hands in mine.

Grasping at happy memories 

They return bittersweet and fading.

Threatening to lose her all over again.

A fragment of her soft wrinkled hands

Cradling freshly picked raspberries,

Their sweet tartness,

Their gentle sheen in the afternoon light.

As I nervously pull fruit from their branches,

Some squish and break.

We stand in the bushes among bees and thorns,

but by her side, I was safe.

We carry our pickings inside.

I can barely see above the counter.

On tiptoes I watch

as water cascades through the strainer,

Shining, cleansing, falling down the drain.

Her face turns ornery

she plops a berry in her mouth.

The curve of her smile fades from view 

I helplessly reach for more

Where do our memories go

after they flow through us?

Only echoes of birdsong remain.

Blurred reds and deep purple hues

Faint warmth and muddled chatter.

Her weathered hands still resting in mine,

in an unlasting forever