I stare out through rippled glass across and past the front porch swing.
Summertime is my reflection, it just stares me down.
Some mornings we don't recognize each other.
Other days we're sad old friends.
Not a word will pass between us, yet we understand.
Just like the Mrs.
and me.
Just like she and I used to be.
Just like Abigail Brewer Wrigley.
She used to wake up early every morning, make a cup of tea and go outside.
And I would watch her from this window, I would write it all down.
Painting portrait after portrait with my words.
Of the Mrs.
at tea, just as she used to be.
Just like Abigail Brewer Wrigley.
I lost the old girl nearly four years back, and now I'm lonely in the home.
I make due with my reflection, an old and spited man whom I once knew to look frantically for notepads, never far out of reach.
And write down all the comings and goings outside the rippled glass across the front porch swing.
Where the Mrs.
and Me held hands indefinitely, me and my sweet Abigail Wrigley.
Abigail Brewer Wrigley.

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