The space you don't fill anymore:
your chair, placed so you would always get
just enough sun in the mornings--
your favorite time of day--
Bible on your lap, and that
look, the one that always meant you
were in love with the sky.
It's captured, slightly, in photos
on the wall, but only your slight smile.
Not the way your eyes would close,
slowly, as you swallowed a thought.
Not the way your nose would
slightly crinkle when your concentration
was particularly keen.
Not the way you would slowly rock,
back and forth and back and forth.
Well wishers say you are
whole, now, in ways that you
never could have been here.
And yet you were loved in
all your frail bits. The body is
much more than the sum of its parts,
yes. But those parts are what
you were. Wrinkled hands, slight
smell of woods and the eyes
of a child with the forever insatiable
thirst that shouted always at the universe:
this-is-a-marvel! Now,
the space you don't fill anymore
still smells like your cologne,
still looks like your head-shape
forever imprinted on
your pillow, still feels like the
cotton of the shirts that fit you
perfectly, and there are truths
that will never be understood as
you might have understood them.
The space you don't fill anymore
yet bears your shape, and your
name will ever and only be
yours.
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