Today, it was persimmons.
The first of the season at the supermarket.
Reached for one.
But stopped.
It’s for her.
Never for me.
And always just one.
After the first, “Persimmon 1” appeared on her handwritten weekly grocery list for me.
Optimistically, she kept writing it for weeks after the season.
Won’t be needing anymore.
Today, it was her hair stylist’s business card.
Turning the page on October, it fell out.
On the back, in her writing, “$25 hair cut + $5 tip.”
That’s what I told her to pay.
She couldn’t remember even numbers like that.
She had faith in me.
So much trust and dependence in just those numbers.
Illness robbed her of her friends — she let them drift away.
But then she got better and started doing little outings.
Like going for haircuts by herself.
She became close with the Korean stylist lady.
She called her “my friend.”
After, when I called the stylist and let her know, she cried for Takako.
I guess she was a friend.
I didn’t have to make many calls.
Today, it was the leaves of fall.
I live on a parkway lined with trees that blaze briefly as the autumn fades.
After she got sick, I could only infrequently coax her out to see the last of the fall’s colors.
But it happened often enough to sustain hope.
The leaves would carpet the sidewalks.
After rain, they’d get slick, like they were greased.
And I would always point that out to her and tell her be careful.
And she would always get annoyed, “I know. I’m not a child.”
Oh, but you were, babe.
Just as much as our kids.
I am so lost without you.