You died in April

I was sitting at the table

I heard my mother cry

While my father went about his life

Why does death, even for the old, puncture like a knife?

I think about your seed: my family

It seems none of us can talk candidly

No, we prefer skydiving and moonlighting

Me, a little bit of writing

Any place suitable to hiding

There’s a lot of unanswered calls

There’s some pretty thick walls

The ones where we used to measure our heights

Up to this point I’ve sort-of skated around

I’m not sure if it’s right

Or what I was hoping would be found

There’s only pictures now

And my memories

For one on the periphery, driven by the fear of regret

One thing now I wish I could get is more of your stories

I wish, as I approach my 40s, that we could sit in that bistro again

And hear you talk about back when

I know you would gladly listen – to me talking about Christians

As if I ever knew what that could mean

All this information, all the people in my life are pebbles in a stream

I’m swimming

Maybe the stream is good for hiding

I didn’t know you too well but I’m glad we met

Coffee and cake with you, I never regret

As some of your seed fades

I think each April still gives way to newness

And I’m not sure how to do this

But among all the pieces, the pebbles, maybe I can be a glue

As I talk to my family, as I think about you

Or should I just let it be?

Isn’t some regret inevitable?

I’m not sure

So I sit by the stream, watching the trees bloom

In history’s gleam

It’s incredible