To Relive by Mary Jo Balistreri Late sun touches our alley like an acolyte this day in summer's waning. You would have enjoyed the softened color, the way shade and shadow offer quietness as presence—like the Romanesque churches that pleased you. They suggest the long view, you always said, and here too, at the end of the narrow stone floor, the sea awaits. I can almost hear seagulls bugle somewhere beyond the breakers. The gold-covered tables are the same though empty. Still, the kind light of our shared understanding hovers: within potted evergreens waving in a small wind, the flowering canopy. Remember how those purple-green pendants would swell toward sweetness? How we'd inhale the fruity fragrance, toast each other with a flute of Prosecco? The scent is more mellow today, muted with leaving, a hint of fall in the air. Your absence looms large but there is serenity here too, my love. It assuages the ache of losing you. I needed to come back one last time and now I'm satisfied. Peace fills my heart as I walk away, our memories preserved in amber.
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