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
-1992-