It's been two months since you've been gone and I still see you everywhere I go. It's the eyes. When Michael opens his when I wake him for school, for a second, I think its you who is looking up sleepily at me. When I shoveled Mrs. Franks driveway last week, she invited me in for coffee and cookies. Even though her eyes were framed by a wrinkled, worn face, there was a moment when I thought you were looking at me.
At the grocery store, I was behind a woman at the register. She didn't look anything like you. She was Hispanic, was a head shorter, and not even the same color eyes. When she put the divider down on the conveyor belt after her items, she glanced back as if to say, "there you go."
She caught me staring and gave me a look. I was embarrassed.
"Sorry," I said, "you look like someone I knew."
"Oh," she said, smiled and returned her attention to the girl ringing up her receipt.
I couldn't think of anything else the whole way home. Was it you? I guess it couldn't be. Why can't I forget you?
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