you visited me in california years ago.
hiked griffith park in tevas,
badgered me into arriving early for a dinner reservation in los feliz.
you wore a purple relay for life sweatshirt
stained, wafting onions and garlic,
your tevas now coated in dust.
back then, for me,
appearances held terrible weight and sound.
i ache to remember what you were saying
as you threw your head back to laugh that laugh, a semiautomatic bray
i adored/ wished you’d keep it down,
because i am sure that happened several times.
i ache to remember your strong hands, sunbrown, dirt from your garden deep under every nail of every finger
wrapping itself around crusty bread dipped in olive oil.
all i could conjure, your sweatshirt and tevas;
leaving me to go back and love them, love you,
like nobody’s business.