I miss you every day. I miss your lines and your curves and the mark, the impression you made on me, just by being there. I miss the something you were to me for all those years, ever since I learned to read, read the large printed word I could then still see.
It’s that magic, the magic when written word is produced and then vanishes into the blank page. That disappearance is my reality, my despair, that which threatens to hold me back, with what was.
I pull out her diaries from their chest on my dresser top. I open the chosen book to a page somewhere within, tracing my fingertips over the indented sheet of paper. I detect the existence of words, of her precious words, those which I cannot, alone, read to myself.
The fact that a pen did once fly across these pages, now leaves a tactile imprint and I know there it is.
I miss you, INK, as you vanish, like that magical diary in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, book two.
You are the vanishing ink of my visually impaired life, that which I have lost. You remind me of all I have had taken from me, but you are the print words I miss seeing with my own eye.
I saw you once, yes I saw you as I held the pen in my hand and drew broad strokes and short points across a page.
Now, I feel the ink’s residue, left behind, and nothing more. No more written word. No more.
Let me alone with it, let me have this time to wallow in that vanishing ink, gone from my world, left behind – the remnants, the residue of you.