Last time I was here,
we sat in this corner together.
Now, I sit alone with my tea.

This morning is grey,
and the weather is turning cooler.
Autumn is arriving.

I don’t remember the weather
or even the season last time,
but you were facing westward.

Your aging eyes focused
above my right shoulder,
as you told and inspected life stories.

Last time I sat in this corner,
there was a liminal bridge
crossing the river from east to west.

Caught up in the swirl of your own words, when I asked a question, you’d return your gaze eastward to me.

Last time I was here,
your stories filled this corner.
Now, there is tea.