Temporary Return

The memory of Eddie

is here like a ghost

walking the white cement paths

of the Neighbourhood Centre,

or coming up the wooden steps

into the Sandbar Room

with his bag slung over his back,

letting it slip from his shoulder

and fishing his notebook out.

I must be a ghost here myself

most Fridays: a haunting

memory — to some. Already

there are new faces. Today,

filling in for Cheryl

who runs the writers’ group now,

I introduced myself

to someone who’d never met me,

although she had heard my name.

“Oh — you’re that Rosemary

they talk about,” she said,

then spoke of bringing her poems

to Cheryl for advice.

Which is as it should be ...

and it was good

to see the familiar,

yet strange to hear of projects

they hadn’t yet dreamed, before.

Nan’s hair is whiter. (So is mine.)

And gentle Marie has gone

with her beautiful words.

But we know she’ll be writing her journal

still, in her new home.

Eddie posts photos from Thailand,

looking happier than he ever was here.

And I nurture my own writing now.
It is well. I let the ghosts fade.