In my life’s novel, I’d already parked
you in Boston, where you were safe until
you emerged from Harvard, having
shown them all.
The poker-hot friend of my
son, you warmed our family
dinner, glowed on that college trip, and
that first summer home, in my garage, I affirmed
your spark was safe.
I appreciated your ability to hear me with
athletic energy. Had I known, I would have come
to you, tried to hold you here, by your hand in mine. I would have
been choked with gratitude if you had stayed.
But, despite my insistence, you are not parked at
Harvard. You are not in the restaurants, or classrooms, or life
stages I check. You are nowhere I am, and nowhere
I left you.