I sense a light leap

onto the foot of the bed

and wait as you cat

your way to the top of my pillow,

sniffing an ear or two or

rubbing your forehead against mine

along the way. We both know

it’s not time to wake,

so I don’t open my eyes

to see how young you’ve become

or ask myself how you managed

the bed without using your stairs

so neatly carpeted and cleaned and

moved to the closet just days ago,

but I do reach out a hand

that you oblige a long rub

along the tall of your back

for me to tell that your tired

matted hair is now smooth and spry

until you decide to hop back down

and cat your way away again,

leaving me with one last glance

to let me know it’s time

to wake.

Passing by, I see the stones

on your stone, even the small carved dog

that once sat on its ledge ready

to run after that last good memory.

Strange how I once sat as you stood

in your living room looking out

the window listening to you

describe the bear in your backyard,

the one we both knew wasn’t there.

It came often, you said, to wander

from the garden on into the neighbor’s yard

and your dog never barked or gave chase

or noticed, because even she knew

the bear wasn’t there. Why?

you always wondered.

Why does it bother to come

when you’re the only one

who sees it when

it’s here.

Sorting through what

pictures never made it to albums,

I can see by their corners

which ones are too curled or torn or creased

crossways edge to edge to ever make it to one now,

but not damaged nearly rough enough to keep the wind

off the waves of Lake Superior from sweeping over me again

or for that sign way off in North Dakota from splitting

the background Prairie in half, harvesting

a family like fruit against time,

and all I want is to pull out the leaf

of this table to make more room

for these pictures,

all black and white,

all starving to be seen in the light

of day, much like the color slides

dad used to project on a screen

from this very spot

during birthdays, holidays, graduation days

or any holy day of obligation

that brought visitors around for a meal

to a table and a reason to remember how

he used to sit here, at this table,

at this very spot

previewing it all through a viewfinder,

one slide at a time, overlooking what gets left

behind – shadows of where arms would rest

beside two eggs, sunny-side, bacon crisp

and dripping, toast lightly burnt and buttered,

coffee with teaspoon of sugar, no cream,

every morning, or beneath that tiny taste

of port wine for dessert

after every evening meal.