Today, you would have been 95
which seemed so old to me at 17 —
there are days when you’re close
growing out of my bones, an echo
of your voice in my throat, my inner ear
but only that — the remainder
of a silence after the last syllable sounds

a memory of laughter and of a father’s rebukes
that taught me:  love too can be harsh
but never without heart or intention.  The fuselage
of a life that dropped out of the sky
and I plant gardens around the wreckage,
drag this sadness out into the sun, to laugh and to cry
when your absence burns the air in my lungs.