Luke, I was Wrong

The snow that fell the night of the day you died 

did not clean our city. Once, home from college 

 

I came back to our school, sharpied I remember

Luke in the new boys’ bathroom. I heard they 

 

brought in a therapist after that. I thought 

they thought remembering you was a sickness

 

and I was very sick, Luke. It snowed again 

on December 5th and again you weren’t here.

 

Last time you’d been dead all day, and you 

have not come back. This year my children 

 

stayed home from school and sledded

down the hill like we used to, and I forgot 

 

to light a candle, but I didn’t forget you.

I’m so busy forgiving everybody I might even 

 

find some for us. I’ve become old and gentle,

soft as one of your thrifted velour shirts. 

 

I’m like gauze for some wound, light and layered

and you cannot grow up, but you do change

 

and move in these elements. You are here, Luke,

inside and outside, in flake and flame.