There is a blue guitar 

on a stand in your room

beside a framed photo

of you on your mother’s lap.

She taught you how to play 

and now all your songs 

are heard in heaven.

I bump into it moving 

around your small room, 

strings ring out 

a dissonant tune.

You’re crying as we lay

on your couch. 

I hold your hand, 

breathing through 

parted lips,

refusing to sniffle. 

My tears fall silently

to give yours the floor.

I know when you play 

that guitar, harmonies

call an angel, 

her presence like

the summer breeze

through an open window. 

August 2024