Empty chair

It's Saturday evening and once again I am sitting out back. I managed to get a respectful fire going and I pulled up 2 chairs. I put a beer on the armrest of your chair of course I have my diet coke. Over the crackling of the fire I talk to you and in my mind I am not seeing the empty chair but you, I see your smile and hear your voice. A gentle rain has started, the evening is perfect. I tell you about my day, how I was dropping some old books off in the donation box. Something came over me and I opened up one of the books before droppimg it in. There nestled in one of the pages was a letter dated April 1988. It was the letter you gave to the children explaining that you understood their feelings about you moving in. It was also a love letter to me. 1988 was the beginning of endless possibilities,of days spent in love, a love that even now transpires death.
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