this is not a lesson in recovery

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this is

a waterwheel that doesn’t belong

on the face of a loved one


the gushing lake of just about

the captured sonata of a lifelong stillness


this is standing bedside

the greatest man I could never know

the stoic calloused hands

that made train tracks and other, less societally relevant

additions to my universe

now devoured the privilege of strength


this is dad handing me a baseball

mom trying the same with a marker

and me holding both out

wanting to be done with the entirety


“could you sign this, grandpa?”


He’s crying


this is my concussed recounting

of a failed and successful farewell

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