It lasts longer than braided leather.
It endures beyond the lifespan
of the oldest oak—
the way our broken, human selves connect
and live on in one another.
 
From one moment to the next,
we pass the baton of memory.
We seek the seed.
We go back to the beginning.
We hold sacred each and every word,
like pearls in the palm, 
like notes on the piano,
floating and finding a home 
in the hope chest of the heart.
 
Long after the wood on the house 
becomes weathered
and the driveway needs repaving,
I will remember the way you 
sanded a single plank after cutting it down
to size, just so the deck would be sturdy.
 
Long after the pretzels are gone 
from the bag,
and the salt blows away in the wind,
I will remember the way your laughter
became high-pitched 
in between telling colorful jokes—
punctuated by salty bites.
 
Long after the netting has frayed
and the white lines need to be repainted,
again and again,
I will remember you teaching my
insecure, 13-year-old self 
how to throw a basketball 
before gym class the next day.
 
Long after my oldest is off at college,
and the Baldwin piano goes silent,
I will remember hearing your bold chords 
from the old living room in New Jersey.
 
Long after wood becomes dust,
long after stone becomes rubble,
my memories of you remain
in the outline of every setting sun.

Words curl up like ribbon.
His memories need to be spoken
a few times 
before they become an even road,
recognizable on the page—
before he remembers 
the thread of conversation.
Yesterday’s sighting of a deer
becomes seeing the deer twice today.
But the concept of deer is still there.
Complicated, mathematic equations
from 70 years ago are still there, too.
The brain is a complex machine.
 
Concepts like marbles travel 
through tubes in the mind.
We never know which smooth sphere of color
he will choose to pick up
and examine.
I see him searching the air for answers.
Somewhere there must be a floating guidebook
listing days, moments, and details.
A typewriter ribbon would hold
all of the letters, all of the words, 
written over and over again.
                        

Walking with loss 
in a new way today,
as if finding forgotten, rugged shoes
in the back of the closet 
meant for longer hikes in spring.
I celebrate small pebbles of memory,
reassured by the weight of a speckled brown agate
or the clear, crystalized light of a citrine.
 
Rather than leave them in a jar
or on a dresser,
I carry the stones with me,
so that your eyes see what I see.
You are not missing these sun dappled moments.
You are enjoying them with us,
sharing in the colors of every mellow peach sunset
and every whispered, honey dawn.
 
In my mind, you notice the little girl 
with bouncing curls,
waiting with her mother in line.
You notice the small dog on my walk
with happy, shining eyes.
So I stop the way you would stop,
bend down to greet this undeniable burst of life.
 
This is how I will let go of loss,
by carrying you with me,
with each step into new moments,
accumulating like so many greening leaves.