for Richard

Before the stroke, the aortic dissection,
the things that robbed you of everything
that mattered, you were the happiest
person I knew.  Arms wrapped around
each other under warm flannel
on January mornings—who wanted
to get up?  In our photo albums:
pictures you took of winter sunrise,
hot pink streaks under the quilt of clouds;
the orchard you planted in full bloom,
a fairyland of blossoms.
And afternoons napping in the leather
recliner, sunlight covering you like
a blanket.  It just don’t get better
than this was your favorite quote.
If dinner was something slow-simmered
like a stew or meat loaf and mashed
potatoes, well, it just didn’t get
any better than that. This is what 
I want to remember, not the nights 
with you in the hospital bed on the first floor, 
me staggering into sleep on the floor above.  
Or the days filled with med sets and therapies, 
progress measured in inches.  Meal times a torture: 
difficult to swallow without choking 
because of the trach. I want to remember, instead,
us side by side on the sofa, the dancing flames 
in the hearth, the slow heat of your torso.  
The way those moments were all we ever needed; 
the way we’d thought next year would be more,
lots more of the same.