St. Stephen

You find me inconsolable

at the top of the stairs

The end of a necklace in my hand

We search and search and you tell me to pray to St. Stephen

"He is the patron Saint of Lost Things"

you say

I have spent many days since

on those stairs

Searching for the things that fall between the cracks.

I

find

them

in my writing, and my cooking, and the way I tie my hair.

I

dream

dreams

of glancing in a mirror and seeing you standing there

glancing back.

"Don't cry love" you say.

"I have been here all along."