By Crystal Arbogast

I trace the road that runs from here to home
Flat Midwest lands turn into green gentle hills
A landscape of white crosses
And "Jesus Saves"
The mist rising to greet me as I make my way
The road twists and winds up the hill to the porch
She is standing there, alone
An empty rocker behind her, a reminder
Of the ache of loneliness that she must feel

His hat still hangs by the door
The clock keeps a rhythmic pace of time
As always, the biscuits and gravy are good
And the conversation is marred
With tearful moments
Perhaps I can rid the silence with memories
Of his laughter
I take my evening coffee to the porch
And rest in his chair