I turn smiling, though the tracks of my tears still appear on my face, looking at the blonde-haired little girl, as she walks to me. She looks up at me and says softly, "Daddy, it's time. We must go." I look at her and nod. "Why do you cry?" The innocence of the question strikes me to my core.

She reaches out and softly lovingly touches my hand. My hand opens and she gently places her hand in mine. I look at our hands together and think how small but how great the touch of another person can be. My heart swells in that moment.

I miss that feeling from you, your hand, as it gently caresses my cheek, your touch, as we walk along the shore holding hands, listening to the waves and birds. These are things I miss and I wish you and I share them again.

I see you standing by the window again. The setting sun shines in creating an aura surrounding you. It makes you appear as an angel. A golden halo surrounds you and makes you appear to float toward me.

Your soft eyes look at me, reaching inside touching my heart and soul. My hand reaches out to touch you and pull you to me. Instead of touching you, you vanish as an apparition before my eyes. My heart yearns to touch you, to feel you touch me, but it never happens. I feel tears run again, as I feel the loss of your love and you.

As we leave, I scan the room. I see the window with the seat cushion, opening out to the ocean. I see the fireplace where in front of the warming fire, we hug, kiss and dream of our future. I see the soft chair with the basket of soft yarn waiting for your return. I see the quilt on the soft bed where we sleep and love each other.

I smell your fresh hair. I hear your voice humming, as you move about. I see your beautiful eyes as you watch me tend the fire. I look at your cute nose and your soft loving lips. I remember their touch as we kiss and linger, as we never want to part. The desire of your touch flares in my soul.

I shudder and slowly walk out the door, my little girl's hand in mine. We walk through the deathly quiet house and out the front door. I turn, lock the door and sadly with tear filed eyes, end a beautiful page of my life, but the book is still open.