Ten Years

 

Ten years went by

Without much fanfare,

Full of the usual heartaches and joys -

Weddings and picnics,

And three grandchildren

That you’ll never get to meet.

 

The river ran,

Unstirred by your paddle,

And books lingered on shelves,

Unread.

A million incidents

Awaited your comment,

Which never came,

And the silence keened.

 

Right now, on Interstate 81,

The sun is carving out patches of light

Below the bellies of bluegray clouds

From which white wavering tendrils hang –

 

And all that’s missing is your secret smile,

As if the whole show were just for you -

A private celebration of a life

Spent savoring the particular essence of now.

 

I am one of the things you left behind,

But unlike the books, or the heedless river,

I carry that smile inside of me,

In the deepest of places, where you still live;

 

And as long as the sun lights up the clouds,

Your face is there, etched in the burning light.