Blessed Memory

Blessed Memory (c) 2000  by Mike Kimera
A year since Jenny died and still I smell her in my sleep.
Waking, hard and hopeful, I’m pierced anew by the remembrance of my loss.
My erection and my disappointment accompany me to the shower. The hot water on my face hides the tears she would have disapproved of.
“Don’t mourn,” she’d said. “Live. Love. Think of me when you are happy.”
Eyes closed, I summon the memory of her gleaming wet skin anwater-darkened hair.
I pretend that her hand, not mine, strokes my straining flesh.
When release at last comes, it is, I think, with her blessing

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