Soapbox

Circular Illogic

(I actually have no idea what to call this, but the software really wants me to title each piece.)

At first, he seemed to have been erased completely
I reached for him, but all I could catch
 was the echo of a slamming door.

After a time I began to glimpse him occasionally,
a distant figure across a crowded room-
a wisp of smoke lingering after his passing.
But the more eagerly I reached
the more elusive he became,
a floating leaf always just out of reach of grasping fingers.

Gradually I have learned to become still and open
to rest in the peripheral spaces between then and now,
let my glance slide away,
allow time for the back eddies to circle around once again.
And when I do, sometimes, he is so close I can hear the whisper of his breathing.

His presence grows more substantial with the passing years of his absence.
Some days I believe that if I can become quiet enough
I can lay my hand on his rough cheek again,
my head against his chest,  listen to his heart,
rest within the warm, safe circle of his arms once more.
I think that, one day,
probably when I am holding some future grandchild in my arms
I will find myself sitting on his lap once again
and his fingers will smooth that child’s sweaty curls,
whisper her name like a love song.