There’s the repaired swivel chair
on the patio still able to hold
your weight,

and there’s the morning breeze
brushing past your cheek,

and there’s the presence
of the Japanese maple transplanted
long ago from your father’s backyard.

Now you’re getting used to things that will not be happening again—

from now on never to look into
a pair of eyes

saying, Let’s go somewhere
and take off our clothes;

never again to feel you’ve
nailed the proud turn of the tango.

Now you almost love
how you’ve been one of many stones
tumbled along by the river of time.

You’re about to say you’ve finally learned
to roll with it all, but that would be false.

It’s okay that there’s no word
for the pleasure
of watching that chipmunk run

to the toe of your shoe, then stop, blink,
and go on with its day.

You think about how a life is made
of a million nows, and you feel quite sure

there’s no way your father’s dying
miserably in a hospital bed

would have cancelled out the best
moments of his time alive.

Now there’s the breeze again,
a little warmer,
stirring the leaves of his tree.