He ran bent fingers soflty over the pictures
of his family.
Like he could touch our faces.
Touch the memories.
Quietly, slowly, smiling,
with a feather width of air between
finger and picture.
He touched each one.
Spoke to each one.
An eternity of stillness
in his movements.
Slowly touching the pictures.
Touching the memory.
Is this really all I will leave for him
in his new room.
Without us. Alone.
Is this really good enough.
Pictures.
Just pictures.
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