Here, I lay against a wisteria tree,

Resting while she is with my son and daughter

As they are enraptured by the sight of the nearby beach

And the flowerbeds.

 

I can still hear the sound of her beautiful dress flowing in the lightly salted wind

The sight of the straw hat upon her head

The silk gloves that she took off 

So that she could feel the touch of our hands

 

Unimpeded by fabric.

Oh how beautiful

Is her smile -

Vibrant and breathtaking.

 

I look up to

The cloud-spotted silvery sky above

With a rose in my hand

Its color gunmetal-gray.

 

“Dad! Look at the flowers! Aren’t they pretty?!” my son says.

“Why yes they are,” I respond kindly whilst smiling as I look at the

Lilies, lilacs, and lavender flowers, “what a wonderful palette of colors.”

 

Everything -

Is gray.

 

All I have ever known

Is that the world is simply various shades of gray.

 

Argentine hair.

Pencil-lead doves.

 

Pewter shirt.

Ashen grass.

 

Nothing has changed.

Nothing at all.

 

Perhaps I am being sad about things,

Or perhaps this is reality.

 

Yet there

in the distance

I see a door.

 

Nothing particularly special about the door

Simply a leaden shade of gray.

I take steps toward it.

 

Possibly out of curiosity.

Then I got sucked in

To a new world.

 

And it was then I saw the scene

As perfect as I remembered

And the world I once knew

 

Is colored in my tears.

I let it dry

So that the sketchbook world I once knew

 

Is colored with more of a variety of colors

So that the gray

Isn’t alone.