words unwinding slowly, haltingly, from
hands that don't want to give them up:
grief uncoiling around the heart,
loosing the strictures of silence and stoicism.
your life rises in front of me, 90 years
of work and family and God and love,
family and children and
the frontlines of World War II, the ocean
dashing up against your vessel to push you
back from the coastline, the gunfire, the inevitable.
two small sons, brown hair and blue eyes,
smart and curious and capable
of following the intricacies of your fingers
as you explained short-wave radio, radar, antenna
(they become an engineer and a pilot).
a wife who loves you, cares for you, cooks for you,
plays dominoes at the kitchen table with you,
who leaves you late in life, peacefully.
i imagine you in all the geographies of your life,
corn fields of ohio, tall grey mountains of washington,
the sun and wind of chicago.
in a life so full of places, and experiences, and people,
you are outlasted by your legacy:
your gentle humor, your kind smile, your love.
i am sad to give you up, but glad to have known you this well.