Photos on the fridge

It begins with photographs
removed in categories
from a refrigerator door.
First, one placed at eye level
of you smiling, relaxed,
tilting your head toward mine,
happy to be where you were.

Others follow-- snapshots of the two of us
taken by one of us with arm outstretched.
Laughing, wondering if heads would be cut
from camera's frame or if point of angle
would include us both. We marveled, later,
at how great we looked together.

A few remain-- innocuous ones,
simply good of you or me,
calling up times of joy, now heartache.
Removing them all is too final a step--
too hard to admit-- too laden with grief.

That will come later--
in a few days, a few weeks,
when the heart is steeled
and resignation is forefront--
when the mere sight of you
stops the healing process.

For now, it still helps
to place a finger on your sweet smile
as I sip my morning orange juice.