Waiting

Used to be I saw quite clearly. Crisply. Now, standing here waiting for you, the world seems fuzzy.
You said, “Wait for me on the bench.” Which bench? There are two. Already five women have strolled by.
Thinking the first one was you I hugged her. Tight. She gasped and gently pushed me away.
Once I realized she was a stranger, I figured she should’ve slapped me. Hard. Now I’ll wait until you say my name.
Fuzzy. Damn fuzzy.
“Clarence?”
“Amanda!”
Dressed in white, you walk toward me. My heart sings.
“Come, Mr. Whitworth, your wife passed five years ago.”