Jazz Sunday

Sarah still sings,

but you are gone

Went to the spa,

on the way home

only got the paper

There is no joy in solitary strawberries and croissants

The paper calls for laughter, comments, sharing,

and comfortable silences 

but the room is empty 

Quiet Sunday mornings, never planned,

first shared,
then anticipated,

and one day named

I remember when you looked up,

contented, gazed at me over your coffee cup,

raised your voice to blend with Miles

and said

Jazz Sunday