I hear my laughing, a laughter I can’t
duplicate anymore, rolling down fifty years,
the clink of glasses, raucous toasting
to whatever lay ahead. Those so many future
challenges we were all dying to take on.
Ideals brimming, golden, clear, strong.
Those evenings would end, we’d push back our chairs
against the night, wish each other well until we would meet again.
We always knew we’d meet again.
Now, each time I push back from the table, walk into the night,
I wonder about what I’ve really done, what I may never do,
wonder if we will all meet again.
If so, when? All of us?
Back then so much less past had passed.
* * * * *
Today’s writing prompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece as a comment below. I would love to read it : )