Last Wave

A joke, someone said, something small

about a specific kind of bread.

And it landed me back, in that hallway,

the floral wallpaper, the smell of old air.

'I'll see you,' I'd said.

She'd just smiled, a little tired, and waved

that loose, dismissive hand.

Like I'd be back tomorrow, for sure.

Like it was nothing, just a Tuesday.

The light caught her hair, silver against the doorframe.

I didn't know then. I couldn't know.

That small motion,

the last casual grace

I'd ever be given.