at exactly 7:04 on Sunday morning, two people woke up.
The loud ringing of the metal alarm clock that lay on her dresser woke her up,
and as much as sleeping in seemed like an inviting prospect...
it was Sunday morning.
she had a place to go.
The loud honking of cars and buses on the nearby street woke him up,
and as much as a good sleep was really all he needed right now...
it was Sunday morning.
he had a place to go.
The click clack of her heels against the pavement.
She knew this path by heart,
been here a million times.
Pass the firehouse,
cross the street,
the winding trail-
with the hollow tree.
His dress shoes were most definitely not suited for this weather,
but nevertheless, he continued.
The crunch of the cobblestone path underneath his feet.
He knew this path by heart, been here a million times,
now the end of the trail.
He opened the rusty gate,
eyes traveled the place.
She saw the tombstone.
Though she had never been here before,
she knew where it was.
And somehow,
Although he had never been here before,
He knew where it was.
A step.
Then another.
And another and another and another.
Two steps.
Then a pause.
Then another and another and another.
8:01
Footsteps.
She stopped,
with the roses that we now wilting
in hand.
8:01
Footsteps.
at exactly 8:04 on Sunday morning, a sister and a brother stood at their mother's grave,
hand in hand.
so close yet
so far apart.
