Object Lessons

It has been one hundred days
of “Good morning, Love,” without reply.

One hundred nights, my hand on your
pillow, remembering the feel of your

hand enclosed over mine. How 
I cherish the things you left behind,

your hat stained from the sweat of your brow,
your toothbrush next to the sink, your wedding

ring, now on my finger alongside my own.
Rememer how, just weeks before your departure

we helped move Dad’s old chair out 
of the living room where it sat for decades.

Tipped on its side, a yellow golf tee and fistful
of change fell to the floor. I stared at the tee 

and wondered how objects can outlive their owners.
How can my life outlive yours? 

“Meet me at the river,” you said, more alive in 
my dream than in life. I startled awake. 

Putting all else aside, I went. The murmur of
water slowed my walk. There I found you, 

in raindrops glistening from hemlock, 
shimmering like tiny lanterns. In 

the yellow-crowned sparrow, who blinked
and tilted her head toward me. In the scent 

of rain and autumn, filling my lungs. 
I found you in the stubborn beat 

of my own aching heart. A giant maple leaf 
lay yellow on the dark, wet ground.