The Writer's Notebook

As a little girl,
I was excited to see him.
But the memories just sit there.

With a rigid, rough, decayed brown cover,
which is like the writer, who once had unbendable, rough, chestnut hair.
He also had matching shiny, tanned, hazelnut shoes. That gleams with an abundant smile.
Even the burnt, smokey, black pages remind me of the smell of his coffee breath, he enjoys every Monday morning.
There’s a little bit of grass stuck between the pages,
which holds an image of the time when he waits for me in the field, of fair, flaxen and golden dandelions.

Waiting
for
me.