I hover ghostly in his room that once was ours whose babies are in these pictures and when did he get that book I would have liked it. There remains no trace of me oh yes there we are that first night of love tucked behind dusty toys from the children his children I mothered. And the ukulele from my heart. That will remain. Some day he may know it is my heart’s strings he plucks plucks plucks. He does not seem bereaved and I am broken and I try to decide which photo of him I will frame and hang in paradise. I will be there soon and he will be with me always.