Sunday, April 8, 2012

In columbine




Granddad ate strawberries with you in the hospital and has gone, too.

Your favorite movie came back with new actors.
Remember how we watched it in the cool green rooms?  You would laugh that ha-ha gravelly sound through sweet lips.
Ferris Bueller, ‘tho, can’t be changed.

I couldn’t write anything for many years
and recall your story differently than others do.
They remember your funny ways, things you did.

You smelled sweet.  Hair soft and thin, spring wind.
You were born in the spring and left at the cusp of summer.
Twenty-nine Saturday.

Good rises.
You drew them to you.
Smiling ladies at hospital and school.
The dear children of kindergarten.
Little sister, big brother.
A nun, before, who read with you.

Thankful to those who made you laugh – ‘bonehead’.
Friends who included you in the egg rolls.
Friends who cradled you.

Songs.  Precious nights only we had.

In the fresh columbine,
in the star your sister named.
We speak still.




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