...what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
—Robert Hayden, Those Winter Sundays

Not yet allowed to cross the street
I waited patiently at the corner,
peering down the block, until he appeared
walking home from the F train.

I, who have
traveled the world,
seen many wonders,
believe that no
wilderness trek,
no safari thrill,
has ever compared
to the moment I would spot him,
my five-year-old heart racing,
small frame bouncing up and down,
waving, screaming Daddy, Daddy,

and he would laugh,
drop his briefcase,
lift me high above the world,
challenge me to guess
which sweaty palm held
a piece of bubblegum
or penny candy.

Oblivious to his
long and burdensome day,
I long assumed that my joy,
my earth shaking happiness,
was all that consumed us both.

...I love as I loved you
young, except that, old, I am astonished
at such a possibility, and am duly grateful.
—Wendell Barry (VII, Leavings)

Hold me as we
navigate the inevitable.

Ignore unkind body parts
screaming warnings.

Laugh as though this is a joke and
we are the only ones in on it.

Explore gratitude, regret,
anger, and joy — but quickly,

time rushes through illusive openings,
insists on recognition.

Stay alert,
keep the beast at bay

with sacrificial offerings of
champagne and flowery toasts.

Cue the music, snap lights off,
in the silky dark

re-explore me,
rediscover the miracle

of what once was
morphing into what is.

Tip your weathered hat, give a
nod to inexplicable luck.

Allow the wind at your back to
push you close, wrap your long

arms around me.
Whisper the L word

in a secret language
only we understand.