You followed me all day today
And I am glad you did

I was thinking, you know, I am 32 now . . .
and so were you -
32 for one month.
I have been 32 for six months.
Though I have lived to see an age you never did,
I will always see your face more aged than mine.

You drove down with me tonight
And I listened to the song
that we played for you.
You would have laughed (we did) -
at your funeral,
Grandma's sister leaned up to Daddy
and said,
"Sebert, I think I want someone
to play the fiddle
at my funeral!"
Daddy chuckled and said,
"I think I do to!"
That piece is so beautiful -
she meant the long run
with the violins;
every time I hear it, I swell;
I am happy -
you come to my mind.
The music we played for you was different.
Everyone mentioned it;
It was not like a funeral.
It was more like you.

Afterward,
Mamma was nervous
trying to write a check one day,
but it bothered her so bad,
she shook and cried -
I had to write it for her.
Don't know why I remember that.

Your friends had your medals
mounted on a polished piece of wood.
They gave it to us,
then Daddy cried.
I had to leave the room.

They bought a big house
but we never liked it
it just wasn't them;
they have a different one now
with a big yard, trees all around.
The house is smaller, but we all like it better.
I think you would, too.

I looked for a long time
down, down into the water today
as I rode from the Island
over to Point Bolivar.
I waited for the dolphins to show up,
and on the ride back to the Island,
they did -
cutting the calm surface,
gliding in semi circles
to disturb the birds floating there.
The water connected us today,
the dolphins too -
You loved both of them.
I could swear you were standing at my shoulder
laughing at the dolphins
sliding to the surface,
graceful games,
friendly in the water . . .

So many shells, scattered out for miles . . .
something to add to my collection . . .
when you were in Italy, you found some for me.
I was just sad
that someone had to deliver them for you.
But thank you for remembering
how much I liked them.

Your friend sat with us on the porch
days before the funeral -
I was wearing gray pants
and a blue sweater set.
"He talked about you a lot," your friends' gaze set on me,
My gaze shot to the brown boards beneath my feet -
I choked.
I know how you bragged
How you always told me to study hard
How you told your friends about my grades
One of them told me
how, when you found out about Eliza,
you bought a round of drinks.

We have pictures of you and Trevor -
his stubby arm
just reaching the tip of your pinkie -
you and he
in the backyard
in the leaves;
I cried, because Eliza was six months old;
you never saw her.
Daddy said,
"I think he has seen her . . ."
Now I have four.
And Trevor is much older -
You would have adored them,
two nieces, three nephews -
They would have adored you,
and I will make sure
That they know you.

Thanks for hanging out with me this weekend,
walking with me on the beach,
watching the dolphins . . .
I'm sorry I got sad
and that I told you some sad things,
but I really miss you,
and sometimes I just want to talk to you about it.

Thanks for what you left with us.

4-11-2009