I could do was sit with him in silence.

I read books while he slept, held his

hand, tried to slow his breathing when

he was agitated. All this to say, keep

your friend company the best you can.

Give your heart to what you sense

brings her relief. If she likes to be

with dogs, be with dogs. If she likes

to smell lavender, smell lavender. If

she likes to watch The Iron Chef,

watch The Iron Chef. Ask gentle

questions, expecting nothing. Listen

for her remaining aliveness. Mist

those tender roots with time, the

one thing she doesn’t have. Love

her into some small adventure

the two of you can enter, like

chasing light or watching the

first silent film. To be a second

self is a vaccine against despair.

Love Your Window

LOVE YOUR WINDOW

No matter how small or old. Keep it

clean so you can see what comes your way.

When the lost bird flies into it looking for

its mate, keep the feather stuck to the glass.

Take it with you and dream of finding what

completes you. At the edge of winter, open

the window of your heart and see your

breath, how what you bring up becomes

the air. When you’re ready or pushed,

close your eyes and the other window

will appear, the one that faces all of

time. What flies there never lands, but

hovers, dropping seeds of infinity in the

breaks we can’t heal. So open the window

of your pain, though the whisperers tell you

to nail it shut, and let in everything that’s

ever lived. What flies and never lands has

been waiting. Be brave. Don’t run. Let the

fire around your window burn until you

become the opening.

Hourglass

HOURGLASS

While you were here, life seemed endless.

Now you’re gone and I’m listening to Keith

Jarrett. A tune I return to when something too

beautiful or hard to bear overcomes me. A piece

on piano I always wanted you to hear. But you

never cared for music and now the thing too

beautiful and hard to bear is your death. Oh

Dad, this is all so new. I felt your absence for

years while you were alive, only to feel your

presence now, so powerful since you’re gone.

Everyone is trying to remember you when you

were young, just home from the Navy, a swagger

like James Dean. But we didn’t really meet until

you were ninety and I said I wanted to see you,

and you dropped the phone and began to weep.

I thought you were beautiful in the worn shell of

your body, beautiful as you took my hand when

you could no longer speak. There were so many

places I wanted to take you: the harbor in South

Africa, the docks of Sausalito, the Jewish Cemetery

in Prague. You never understood me, but a

whole life of trying, worth the few moments we