I remember you in the spring when the lilacs bloomed. The bouquets you placed on our night stands filled the air as we slept.
In the summer you planted rows of petunias and marigolds, baked sour cherry pies.
You took each season and made something of it. You made art of weeds. You made food a demonstration of your love that you couldn’t always express in the hurried rush of life.
I still miss you. But you are with me every time, I plant a garden, bake a pie or cook a special dinner.
I miss your love.