Winters have melted into springs,
Seasons have come and gone
since you were afraid
you’d be left behind in ashes.

You never saw us squirm as you told
tale after tale, the same ones, the same 
words as annoying on young ears 
as the whooshing of corduroy.

Stories of coal trucks, ice wagons,  
and the time you almost swallowed
paper. And yes, we rolled our eyes.  
You never knew, so fearful were you

of fading in time like sun­bleached
leather. You never saw the colors you lived,
heard your laughter echo, realized lessons
you taught, or tracked the tears you dried.

But you live. You live in the way 
your grandson pours capers like pepper
on everything he eats. You live when I close 
my cabinet door you made from scratch, 

or try to turn on the light switch you fixed
that still doesn’t work. Each time a sparrow
lands on the fence you built one steamy summer, 
you live. You live in my dreams, sitting at my table,

dapper,  dressed in black suit and tie, your
face beaming …  only to disappear again.
I think of you when I’m sick, when I’m proud,
when I draw, when I fight for what’s right – 

wishing I could see your smile, hear 
your raucous laugh, one more time.

Caught in a storm as thick and dark
as the medical web that trapped me,
I took shelter at a Chinese buffet,

where no one could mistake my tears
for raindrops. I could sink my sorrow
in a nice, warm bowl of soup, and no one

would notice – except for Joy. Her elbow
bumped mine at the buffet bar. Oh, I’m sorry,
she said, startling me, flipping the mirror

I’d focused on myself. I hadn’t noticed her
until then. I hadn’t noticed anyone. That's okay,
I mumbled. She was striking – a Black woman,

tall and lean, glittering in gold, from her giant 
hoop earrings and jingling bangle bracelets to her
sleek ankle-length dress and stilettos. Her long,

gold fingernails pointed to her favorite dishes, 
and as we filled our plates, she asked questions
about my life, as if trying to pry open a shell

I’d slammed shut a long time ago. As we parted
for our tables, she shook my hand. My name is Joy. 
It was nice to meet you. She hugged me tightly, 

whispered,  It’s going to be okay, her faint fragrance
lingering as she disappeared into the crowd of diners
and I returned to my table – invisible once again.

Rain had begun to wane. Still imbued with the warmth
of Joy’s hug, I grabbed my coat. My fortune cookie,
safely wrapped in its tiny package, dropped to the floor.

I’d almost stepped on it, then almost tossed it. Instead
I opened it gingerly and in tiny print, the message read,
The hard times will begin to fade. Joy will take their place.

I scanned each room to find the woman in gold. Nothing.
Visited each table, asked servers carrying heavy trays,
approached hostesses and diners. No one had seen her.

I wonder even now if I had. I left that night feeling
defeated. Why hadn’t I told her how much it meant
to feel her hug, to see her smile, to feel her comfort?

Two years later, the fortune cookie message is still 
displayed on my fridge. Dark times remain,
but Joy stays with me. I hope she knows that.