Sunday, 7:00 a.m.

Coffee says be brave; I negotiate for quiet.

Thursday’s still in the room—
           Irby’s, the laugh,
    the slide home to Sylvan,
          the way we touched,
      then missed each other…

      by the width of a word.

Friday answered with nothing—
                 until 3 p.m.
     when the message landed:

     “She’s gone.”

The world put both hands on your shoulders
    and I couldn’t lift a finger for you,

    except to send small voices through a wire.

I don’t know how you grieve.
(I don’t always know how I do)

When my grandparents went, then Pops,
        I didn’t “get over” anything—

I just learned to carry it,
  and time—
           unromantic,
           relentless time—

  taught the edges to stop cutting quite so deep.

Not a cure.

A way to walk with the weight.

Today I judge a hackathon at your old place,
      Yellow Jackets on the walls doing their best to hum.

Later, Irby’s, NFL noise,
       a crowd to put a roof over my thoughts.

I’ll let the roar be a room
     where I can keep a light on for you.

What I want is simple and impossible:
     a ten-minute hug that says everything at once.

Failing that, I can hold without hands—
                     keep a chair warm,
    a quiet that doesn’t ask questions,
  send a voice memo before your coffee…

  and nothing after—unless you want more.

I can pray in practicals—
  may your phone only ring with gentle things,
  may somebody bring you water and a bite that tastes like comfort,

  may sleep find the one window that’s open.

Tomorrow, I’ll do small, faithful work—
             answer what needs answers,
                      walk a long loop,
                leave the day arranged
            so your “no” costs nothing

    and your “yes” has a place to land.

Say the word and I’ll take Coal
    and the hours that come with him.

Say nothing,
    and I’ll stay right here, steady as furniture.

If you need me, send a dot,
                   a comma,
     the ghost of a letter—

I’ll read it like a map.

Until then I’ll practice
      the art of being near without leaning—
                                  voice low,
                                chair saved,
                             door unlatched,

      room made ready for whatever you bring.

I can’t make any promises about tomorrow.

Except this:

I’ll be here.

Holding you, with or without hands.