I carried the cold choke of tears from a fading vision,
back to the warmth of my bed.
Dreams aren’t characteristically so on-time,
Ever arriving in a cloaked foretelling.
Or standing with its useless suitcase in the echoing rumble of a train departed.
But here we are with the on-time arrival
of the anniversary of your death.
In the same bed where I clutched a phone and heard nothing after,
“He’s gone. Your father’s passed.”
Without looking, I still find you.
In the trailing whistle of a passerby.
And the daily improv songs and antics of your 2-year old grandson.
Reminding me of just how much youth you carried with you to death.
Reminding me that life is actually never so serious.
Reminding me that there’s always space,
really no matter how inappropriate,
for a punchline.
And that I’ll find you laughing with me,