You speak of moving to Asheville to help
take care of your father who is rapidly
approaching the finish line, whose bones
support half the weight they did when you
were a kid. It will be within the year, you
say, and I feel my chest heave as if some
bully has kicked the wind out of my lungs.
I understand your heart and I can see your
lips move up and down as you form the words,
but I think I need to move into another room,
just for a while, until I can grow into this new skin.
You keep writing while I'm gone, let the magic
table know that we are not abandoning it at this
time. I will take my seat across from you when
I am ready.
Hold my hand steady while I sign the check.
Take whatever you need to make your journey
what it needs to be.
You promised that if I went first down to the
beach where the salty air can help me breathe,
that you would follow and fill up our space with
spirit and power and words. I can promise you
the same, to climb that mountain with you until
your dad crosses the line into the next phase
of his own journey.