Instead

 

I could write about the long, dry fifteen years you’ve been gone

and point to all the cracks, holes, fissures, and crevices

which your exit slit open in the fabric of my existence.

That would be one way of remembering you today,

your absence gaping a little more each year.

 

Instead, I look at the two subtle, barely visible lines

on my forearms, just below the inside of each elbow,

which are yours (no one else in the family has them

except for my brother and me);

I observe a couple of small, faint brown spots

that have recently appeared on my hands,

now beginning to look like yours;

I comb slowly the silver strands, growing thicker,

in my hair near the ears exactly where yours were;

and when I turn my head to my left slightly,

I catch your quick, lively eyes shooting me

a glance of recognition from the glass

(you are always smiling in there).

 

But the best of all is when I feel,

with bare feet firmly on the ground,

how my anchor, my pull, my centre of gravity

attaches me to you and the long line before you,

keeps me light but rooted,

reassures me I’m safe and sound.

Vulnerable but with you somewhere

still around.