When it rains hard,
I think of the small ring
I keep in a hollow book—
and her small hands.
She touches my cheek,
smiles. I tell her my name again
and for a little while sit with her,
sharing the warmth of her shawl.
Then as the rain slows,
I find myself alone again, and young,
and I promise to be good.
About the Author
Published by Texas Review Press