That day

The day dad died
   Mom took the car
   and went for a drive
She was the loneliest person alive
   that day
He isn’t coming back
Twenty-Seven years later and
   I’m 40, just as he was
      when he died
Mom lived seven years after him and
      was dead at 45
Then, the dead leaves of fall
      were everything
Now, I catch myself eagerly waiting
      for Spring
They aren’t coming back
My son is not quite three
Sometimes just the texture of things
   delights him
Drains, especially, are interesting
   as are puddles and dirt and almost
   any kind of leaves—
   from bright orange, to pale brown, to green