Afterlife

At last I have made you mine. You will now live against my wall. I bear the red stains of birth on my clothes, a proof of what binds us. For now I will not wash. I have toiled all night: I have made night and night has yielded you to me. Dark rings hang below my eyes, a further witness to my labour, my love.

As for the gloves I have worn, they also hang against my white washed wall, a xylophone of colour. Because when I think of you, I think of your voice, your music: I don’t think I could have shaped you from scratch if I hadn’t been hearing you as I worked. Yes, all night I made you, I heard you, I handled you, as they say, with kid gloves. I kept you intact.

Just as the glove you left on my work table the last night you came. I dared not touch or move it as I worked. The table held a world in this forgotten glove: A still life in its own right. A class in your craft.