At unexpected moments

he could feel her fingers

plucking at his heartstrings,

playing the tune

they used to sing

off-key

on long trips

while the old Toyota

chugged up the mountains

barely doing forty-five

and the children fidgeted

in the back seat,

counting license plates

from every state.

He was Tony,

hanging from a fire escape

under Maria’s window,

both dreaming of a place

where they’d be safe to love.

He placed his hand on hers

and sang, “we’re halfway there”

as the children whined in back,

“how much longer?”

A lifetime later,

the children grown and married,

his wife in a grave marked with

colored stones

they’d collected on their trips,

all that remained was the music

and a strong feeling

she was still waiting for him,

somewhere.

(orginally published in Epiphany)