I wish you could be here
to swim in the surf.
Instead, I sit on my own
and watch my skin turn brown.

This is a beautiful place.
I keep pinching myself
to make sure I'm really here.

A young man of seventy-five,
a college friend of mine,
took us out to lunch.
Don't tell, but when he left
he said he still loved me.
Isn't that exciting?

There is only a sandy beach
between our cottage and the gulf,
where the surf runs high
when the tide rolls in.

Your news came as no surprise
to anyone, and all is well.
Still, I can't help but want
for you the kind of love I had.
There is nothing like it,
the explosive love I experienced
because it was exactly right.

Sorry I don't have my typewriter,
but hope you can read this.

                   All my love.

Ella challenged the Real Toads to select a photo of an ancestor and give that person a voice. My grandmother's actual voice is everywhere on this blog, and this poem is in her voice, too. If you're interested, much more writing by and about her can be found by clicking on "my grandmother" in the tag cloud to the right.