I do so love those at a distance. Like night, quiet, I savour what I have of them, revel in what I know is them true.  My soul dances with them on water-featured terraces surrounding my fragile flesh-ensconced heart.  Truly, they are my treasures.

Common flesh are many:  daughters and cousins, grandparents and other kin.  I breathe with deep affection their voices bubbling syllabic on the telephone.  Details flood my imagination as they speak of holiday dresses and funerals of pets, of feasts and economic famine, relationships that diminished time and memory but never identity or hope.

Few are prospective lovers:  Soldiers or nomads wandering in the world.  They trudge foreign ground and consider wordfully soil I’ve not yet traversed:  We share common moons and a similar sun, as well as trepidation over coming flesh to flesh and touch to touch.

None of my heartstrings interfere with daily life.  They are, instead, the illumination of my days.  While I beg God to let me taste their skin and inhale their scents, I muse quietly joyful that I experience what i do of them.  Delight is mine, in anticipation of every morsel they let me share of their prayers and cares, life and dust.

I know no sadness, only sweet anticipation;  I know them better than others I should trust.

Let this be a celebration, then, a memorial to those I love.