I saw the rain drop upon the lake.
Her father said we should eat inside.
We took the chicken and corn
off the hot coals and placed them
on the wooden table. He had once
told me that it was a hundred years old.
The people who built the cabin
had made it. Looking at the dark
and sturdy wood made it apparent.
She placed the plates and cutlery
down and I set the corn and chicken
at each setting. We sat to eat.
Flowers on the table. Colorful bits
of pottery, plates, and knick-knacks,
all decorating the cabin. She wasn't
here. Yet she is. Eternally.
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