All the time (for Walter Rollin) [Day 1137]

The oranges are heavy on the tree again, 

finches scolding from the eaves, and 

paper wasps reclaiming their favorite homes.

The light has shifted, taken on 

the astonishing luminance prized by artists,

breathtaking, impossible to leave.

And I stand here, alone, in this empty house, 

floorboards echoing with your footsteps.

And I doze in the room where you worked,

bathed in aqueous light, and sense you, 

bent over your desk, pen scratching.

And, in a moment, you will call my name 

ask for help with your phone, or your nemesis, 

the printer, still glowing — 

a pale blue heartbeat in the darkness.

Certain things I do not talk about now:

The unused coaster where your wine glass 

once rested

Those Halloween pumpkins you insisted 

we didn’t need as we teetered on the final step 

of childhood

The shoes, the socks, the sweaters you wore 

to shreds without complaint, so we might have 

the opportunities you believed we deserved

And how, when someone tore a hole 

in the universe, you were there to help mend it.

Perhaps it would never again be complete,

and ease was years away, but not knowing that, 

we forged on with nothing but your seam 

of crooked stitches to prevent all the starlight 

from trickling away.

These and other things I do not talk about.

They were ours. They were yours,

fragile dreams I hold close, guarding against 

time’s inevitable erosion. 

Now, again, the oranges are heavy on the tree.

You are not on your way home to us, 

but you are home.

A veil of spring rests lightly on the land. 

You will not bustle in scattering coats and papers 

and the half-eaten baguettes you bought for dinner, 

and found impossible to resist as you drove.

Now the weeks come, and they come, 

and the years. I let them wash over me — 

a river of companionable memories, 

an autumn forest of stories, rich and colorful, 

fleeting yet unforgettable.

And I carry you with me.

A slight breeze stirs, a curtain gathers 

and parts, revealing the shimmering expanse 

beyond.

Through the frame, I see you, high on a golden cliff, 

chair askew on the uneven ground, your hair 

tousled beneath a disreputable straw hat 

like some modern-day impressionist, 

capturing the California coast 

with the perfection you longed for in this life. 

You look up from your work. I see you smile, 

welcoming, at peace and, finally, dwelling in joy.

The light has transformed, and you 

have all the time in the world.

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Composed for, and read at, the memorial service 

for Walter J Rollin, who died Jan 12, 2020. 

He was my dad, my friend, and so much more.